


The Smell Of Home

by french_crap, hobohodo



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: And all that in a public Restroom, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Friendship, It's set in Paris 2011, Lots Of Insiders, Love at First Sight, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mostly Friendship yep, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 03:35:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 27,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4247793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_crap/pseuds/french_crap, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hobohodo/pseuds/hobohodo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the story of how alcohol stopped tasting bitter and became sweet instead.<br/>A story of how coincidences, eye contacts and incidental touches can change how we see the world, or rather, how the world presents itself to us. A story of three bars, of brandy, of pink cocktails and of instants that last precisely ten heart beats, not more, not less. This is a story of friendship, in its most simple and purest form, but more importantly, a story bringing joy back into the craved necessities of life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Commencement

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as an homage to one of the most amazing writers living on this very earth, a writer who has not only inspired me a hundred times, but who has also endured twice as much of my rambles about my progressions of various fanfictions than anyone else. Aubrey, I shamelessly admit that this Grantaire is your Grantaire, for he will always be my Grantaire.

7 am. The alarm rings. He waits for it to sound three times before he sits up and stops it after its fourth chime. Steps to the bathroom: Twenty. Light on. Light off. Light on. Teeth. Ten brushes for the upper right molar. Ten brushes for the upper left molar. Ten brushes for the lower right molar. Ten brushes for the lower left molar. Repeat for the outside of same teeth. Repeat for the inside of same teeth. Five brushes inner incisors and canines. Fifteen brushes outer incisors and canines, jaws clenched. Rinsing. Stretching for twenty seconds for each side of the body. So far so good. He smiles. It's a grimace. His cheeks and eyelids still feel heavy from the lack of sleep. One cup of water, then opening the window. Sunny day, vitamin D, perfect, maybe that will help with his cardiovascular disease, the one he read about yesterday and now believes to be the cause for his steady tiredness.

But by the time he walks to his wardrobe, the cardiovascular disease is long forgotten. He picks his best clothes, mostly for the simple reason that he has no worst clothes. They are all maintained perfectly, washed, dried, ironed and folded neatly, they are all of the same colour.

Everything around him is grey. He blinks and rubs his eyes, but it remains dull.

Over the course of the day, the fading of light isn't to stop, so that when he finishes his last class and steps outside the building of the Sorbonne, the mist around him is so thick that he has trouble seeing where he goes. A classmate waves him goodbye but it's impossible to lift his arm in return. It's too heavy. Everything is too heavy. His lips curl barely up and although he can't remember when he relaxes the muscles again, the smile is gone by the time he reaches home. His apartment. For it surely isn't home. He never had a home. He lived with his parents. He lived with his father. He lived with his aunt. He lived alone. But he never lived at home.

After opening the window again, he measures his blood pressure, measures his blood sugar. He looks at his skin and looks at his tongue. Everything appears to be normal. “Then why doesn't it feel normal?” His voice is hoarse. He can't remember the last time it hasn't been hoarse.

Maybe it's lung cancer, he thinks and starts researching the symptoms on his laptop. When he looks up again, the night has already fallen over Paris. He isn't hungry, nor does he feel the need to eat, but he is a medicine student and knows that the human body needs to be fed to function properly. Not that his body has ever functioned properly.

So he gets up and starts preparing pasta. There is no need to cook more than a simple dish, he doesn't require much more. He knows that no matter what he cooks, he wouldn't enjoy it anyways. But when the water boils and he attempts to add the pasta to the pot, his hand twitches for no reason and some of the spaghetti fall to the ground. With them, he sinks down too. He leans against the kitchen wall, ignoring the hissing and bubbling of the boiling water above him, curling up and crying into his knees. He bites them. He doesn't know why he's crying. He didn't feel like crying a minute ago. It just comes and goes, sometimes, that need. He takes the fork that has fallen with the spaghetti and runs it into his stomach. His clothes keep it from piercing the skin. He wants it to hurt more, he wants to bring the fork back up and see bright red blood sticking to its peaks, but he also wants the pain to stop. The pain that lies so deeply buried in the pit of his stomach, buried by the black darkness that has devoured – and never disgorged – so many memories of his past, the same black darkness that makes it so hard to live his life. It's a life he wants to live, wants to experience with other people of his age, wants to enjoy, wants to take part of. But he can't. The ever so black darkness keeps holding him back. He would give his life for a simple, cliché night at a bar with friends. But he has neither friends, nor does he know any bars. And simple, is surely not a word that fits to describe him. And yet ... he would give his life for such a night. He really would.

Suddenly the crying stops and he looks up at the boiling water. He turns the stove off and goes to the bathroom, opening the medicine cupboard. The amount of little bottles full of pills he owns is frightening big. He rarely ever finishes them. He just buys them to make sure that they're there. But today this will change. He opens them, all of them, and rinses his toothbrush glass before filling it with water. One by one he lies pill after pill on his tongue and swallows. Swallow. Swallow. Swallow.

He only stops when most of the bottles are empty and it feels like some of the pills are stuck in his throat. Only then he goes to put on his shoes to leave his home. His apartment, not home, for it surely is no home.

Since the day he arrived in Paris, his feet have never carried him anywhere but to the university, so they do it now too. When he finds himself in front of the sandstone building and all the lights are off, he looks up and down the street. Up. Down. Up. Down. Eventually he goes to the right, direction of the Seine. When he meets the river and walks along its banks, he thinks of all the people who have drowned in it. All those lost souls. He tries not to, but he envies them.

When Notre Dame chimes ten times and his stomach starts aching, he turns left and enters a bar. He will enjoy the last bit of his life now. He will simply be in a bar and enjoy his life.


	2. Cosmopolitan Medicine and Political Beer

Entering the bar, a stench of cheap wine immediately crawls up his nose. His stomach complaints and he turns his head to find the barcounter. He saw it in a movie once, how the real drinkers would sit on the barstools and either talk to the barman or stare into their glass of brandy. He's quite relieved when he finds exactly that kind of shady guy sitting next to the only empty chair. He goes to join him, wordlessly, his eyes still carefully observing everything around him. On his left sit two ladies, who hold in their hands beautiful triangular glasses with red liquid in it and a slice of orange on their borders. The barwoman herself looks old and grumpy and scrubs the pintjugs so aggressively that it's a miracle that they're not simply falling apart. Someone on the very right of the bar snors loud enough to pierce through the music playing and it sounds as disgusting as it could be.

The sickness arises again but leaves instantly when the barwoman suddenly addresses him. “What can I give you?”

He startles, staring at the barwoman. He has no idea what he wants! He wants to die, but he doubts that he can order that in this bar. So he points at the drinks of the ladies next to him.

"Two of that?"

"Two, yes. Please.” he stammers, too scared to correct her. The barwoman raises her eyebrows – it is only now that you can see her eyes, oh and how you can see her eyes! They stare right through him and he shivers. 

“How old are you, p'tite Mademoiselle?” she grunts in a distinctive parisian argot.

“Monsieur! I'm a … it's ... it's Monsieur. And I … I'm nineteen. Legal. I promise.” he stutters back, nearly falling off his chair from leaning back as much as he can.

The barwoman grunts again and shrugs, turning around.

He lets out a long sigh, relaxing, and his shoulders drop. He waits and although he doesn't dare to tilt his head, he is nearly sure that the man with the brandy next to him casts him a glance more than once. And he is right. When he receives his two triangular glasses with the red liquid and orange slices, the man next to him says: “A real gay drink you got yourself there.”

“Pardon?!” he turns around now. The man looks sick. Dark circles shade his even darker eyes, his lips are pale and chapped, and his black curls hang greasily and messily into his face. But he seems also much younger than first expected. Maybe in his mid-twenties?

“Cosmopolitan is probably the most girliest cocktail you can get.” the man explains, pointing at the two drinks.

“I do not see why you would say such a thing. It is obviously red, and the last time I checked red is not a girly colour.”

The man smirks. “Vodka, sec and juice. So gay.”

“I don't see the point in discussing my drink. So what. Let it be girly and gay. It's probably very delicious.” And if to prove how little he cares about appearing feminine, he downs the entire cocktail in one go and then loudly sets the glass back down on the counter, looking back at the man. It takes less than a second for his tongue and throat to start burning like fire, and he gasps dramatically. Wheezing, he stares at the empty glass. “What the hell is that?!” he exclaims. “This tastes like toilet cleaner!”

The man next to him bursts out into laughter, barely waiting to ask: “Does that mean I can have the other one?"

Being too busy to cope with breathing again, he ignores how the man just grabs the second cocktail and without hesitation he takes a sip. There's not even a flinch on his face. “Alcohol is disgusting.” he mumbles, still feeling his throat and stomach burning.

The man snorts. “Why did you order two Cosmos, then?”

“I didn't order two-..." he pauses. "Nevermind. I need to get drunk.”

“Won't work if you nearly die at every sip.”

“I'm fine, thanks.” The irony in the man's words almost makes him grin. If only he knew that that really was Joly's intention. Dying a little more with every sip. “I thought that this cocktail is gay? Apparently not gay enough for you?”

“Hah!” the man scoffs, “I was just observing, not judging. Never said that girly is bad. Jeez, how I fucking love Cosmopolitans.” With that he takes another sip, sighing happily. “Grantaire, hi.” The man holds out his hand, and much to his surprise it looks far more delicate than his voice would make you imagine it.

Hesitantly taking it, he tries not to think about the germs on it. “J. Joly.” He timidly looks at the man from the side and before he gets the chance to force his muscles to work, a smile is already playing around his lips. “Joly, with an y, not an ie.” He's not jolie, not beautiful, and he doesn't want to be.  
“So, like Jolly.” the man says in a very French English. “Jolly, comme 'appy.”

He shakes his head. “No, that … that would be too much irony. Just … just Joly. Like … Joly.”

“Does the J in your first name stand for 'just'?”

He gives him a little chuckle. “No.”

“Then you are not 'Just Joly'.” Grantaire says in a decisive, solemn manner, “I'm very sorry to inform you, but from now on you are either Joly, or Jolly, but certainly not Just Joly.”

A rush of dull happiness overcomes him, when he realises that this man, this Grantaire, is in fact not going to ask for his first name. He holds his own upper arms, as if trying to calm himself. Emotions have always had a negative effect on him, even the positive ones, and he really mustn't throw up now. “You're being ridiculous.”

“Maybe. But, tell me, Jolly, what are you doing in this bar ordering your very first cocktail ever?”

He shrugs. “Ordering my very first cocktail ever, I guess.”

“Ah, what a lucky random happenstance, then, because I was just about to spend some money to buy a very second cocktail ever on the first nineteen-year-old boy I would encounter!”

Another chuckle escapes Joly, and he can't help himself, he has to gaze at Grantaire's profile as he orders two beers for them. He looks much younger now than he did a few minutes ago. His nose is still just as crooked and his beard is still just as scruffy, but there is something childishly naive in the way he grins and playfully flirts with the barwoman.

“Cheers.” he holds up his beers and Joly clinks it shyly.

“Cheers.” Taking his first sip, he reminds himself why he is here. He closes his eyes and downs all of the beer at once. The taste is far less sweet than the cocktail before, almost bitter, like something that is not meant to be drunk, and the smell stings like dried sweat in a men's changing room. Something numbs his tongue, and his chest feels itchy after he sets down the empty glass again. He places his hand on his stomach.

“By Dionysus, you have no time to just appreciate things, do you?” Grantaire asks, baffled, not having even started his beer.

Joly feels the sickness overcoming him and clenches his jaws. He mustn't throw up, he mustn't throw up, he mustn't throw up, not before he's dead. Suddenly he feels a hand on his shoulder and the pain ceases, even if just a little. He glances up. Grantaire looks worried.

“You okay?”

“Perfect.”

“Let's go walk a bit, yeah?”

He doesn't want to say yes, he knows that he hasn't got too many chances to die, not if he doesn't want people to talk about him, or have him lock away, lock away like they locked his father away, he doesn't want to get up and have a walk with that stranger. He wants to sit in the stench of cheap wine until he looses consciousness.

“Buddy?” Grantaire leans in a little, trying to look into his eyes.

He nods and gets up. Maybe this man is a serial killer. Maybe he will just be daggered to death tonight. At least I wouldn't have failed again.

~~~

“So you lived in Paris all your life?” Joly concludes one of Grantaire's stories about his 10-year-old self. They're walking for good an hour now. The sky above them is pitch black and doesn't care that Joly is unfortunately still breathing in full consciousness.

“Basically. Came here when I was five. After my dad ran away and all.”

Joly can't help but think of how odd it is that they both lost a parent at the same age. Well, lost. “My condolences.” he says. Grantaire just shrugs, digging his hand into the pocket of his jeans. “Where did you live before that?”

“Teheran.”

Joly raises his eyebrows in surprise. This is more mimic than he managed to produce in a whole year. “That is really cool.”

“Paris is cooler.” Grantaire retorts and smiles a crooked smile of which Joly would love to know what it means. “Where are you from?”

“Lyon.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah.”

They keep walking in silence, eventually slipping into a conversation again.

It's weird. He has never talked so much and so long with anyone in his life. Yet, it doesn't feel wrong. Not even strange. The only strangeness comes from the lack of strangeness, the fact that it's cozy, comfortable, warm, safe. They're not alike, at all. Grantaire speaks fast and a lot, speaks with grand gestures and a lot of awful alliterations, mauling metaphors, speaks well. Sometimes it's even very poetic, sounding as if he's reading from a novel. You could put him on a stage and just hear him talk about what he had for dinner last night and it would still be the most interesting play you've ever seen. He also climbs on all kinds of things. On little murals, on benches, up street lamps. And he is drunk. Drunk enough to call the beauty of the city of Paris “urbawesomeness”. Although, maybe, that's just a thing he'd say in a sober state, too. He's drunk and keeps drinking. In his right hand he holds a bottle of wine the entire time, taking a slug every now and then. Joly keeps his arms wrapped around himself. His voice is low and sometimes there are long gaps between his sentences, gaps in which he tries to fit in the right things to say, the right expressions, tries to live up to Grantaire's agility with words, gaps in which he just tries to remember where he started. Sometimes, that alone is hard enough. He declines all offers for more alcohol.

However, it works. They work. Joly listens in awe, and Grantaire waits patiently for Joly to finish his reply. The time passes, and the rhythm of the conversation is slow, then fast again, but never rushed, and never dragging. Joly never minded to just listen to people, but this is the first time he doesn't mind being listened to.

“I just don't think it's fair that we're all given the same tasks. That we're expected the same things. It is a fact that … that some people can do more, others less. That … that we're all different.”

“Their excuse is that in the world 'out there' we will have to work all the same too, but that's wrong, I agree. This world is so full of wonderful wonders, everything's from such a spectacular spectra, there just is a place for everyone. If some people can't cope with the amount of work given at college, they won't work in a job in which they're expected to function like that either, right? A tiger hating its cage won't seek a cage after being freed, will it?”

Joly nods.

“Everybody is a genius. But if you judge a fish on its ability to climb a tree, it will spend the rest of its life thinking it’s an idiot.“

“Albert Einstein?”

Grantaire grins. They sit down on a bench in an empty park. “So what do you study?”

He looks over at him. A street lamp is illuminating his face. “Medicine. It's only my first year, though. I … I don't think I can make it. This year was … difficult. I knew it was going to be hard after the year of prep school for the concours but ... It's hard coping at the moment.”

“Well, that's no shame. Medicine is literally one of the hardest majors. But really impressive you got in. I take my hat off to you. Why are you studying it?”

He shrugs. “What are you studying?”

“Guess.”

He hates guessing, but he tries. He feels safe enough. “Literature.”

“Too easy. Guess again.”

“Art?”

Grantaire smirks. “Almost. Try again.”

They look at each other and Joly sighs. “I give up. Tell me.”

“Politics!”

Joly nearly laughs. “Almost like art, yeah right.”

Grantaire grins. “It is, though! If you take it on a, ah, metaphorical level.”

He smiles. “What year is this for you?”

“First.” is the plain answer. When he sees Joly's surprised blinking, he laughs. “I just turned eighteen.”

Joly scoots back a bit to look at him more properly. “Eighteen?” Younger than himself?! He was kidding, he had to! He looked like twenty-six, twenty-five, maybe, if you pushed it, twenty-two, but eighteen?!

“I know, I know.” Grantaire laughs again, leaning back on the bench, his arms hanging down the backrest. He tilts his head back and closes his eyes. “I look old for my age. Always did. Guess that comes from being so fucked.”

He stares at him some more. “It must be bothersome to look that much older.”

“Au contraire. It's fucking awesome. Got to buy my mother's alcohol way before I was legal. And where ever we went, they'd always take us for a couple. A fucked and old but beautiful lady with a really young boyfriend.” This time he stops himself and doesn't laugh at his own joke. Silence arises. After a moment Grantaire stirs. “Forget I said that.”

Suddenly he feels uncomfortable again. He stares at his hands, folded in his laps. He feels the need to cross his arms, but he doesn't dare moving. The silence scares him and he wants Grantaire to say something. But Grantaire stays silent. And so, eventually, he stammers: “I bet she was a really beautiful woman, your mother-”

“I said forget that I said anything.”

Joly startles at the cold, cutting words and tightly shuts his eyes. He didn't mean to offend Grantaire. He didn't mean to go to far. He didn't mean to fuck this up. He tries to think of something to say, anything. But his mind is empty. And then it's suddenly full. He remembers the last three hours, all the things he has touched, all the steps he has walked without counting, all the street lamps he has passed without holding his breath, all the 'I's he has said without caring. He's shaking, suddenly, and still tries to find something to say. He opens his mouth but before he has the chance to speak, he throws up. He leans forwards and falls to his knees, keeping his eyes shut to not have to see his opportunity to die leave him without another word.

“Merde!” Grantaire jumps to his feet and watches him throw up a second time. Not that there is much left to throw up.

When Joly starts shaking so much that his arms can't hold him on his fours anymore, Grantaire grabs him by the shoulders and makes him sit up straight. 

“Joly, look at me, buddy. Joly?” Joly does so. He's not thinking, he's just doing. “Are you okay? Let's get up and sit somewhere else, yeah? Can you get up? Hey, keep looking at me, what's up? Why are you shaking so much?”

The next thing Joly notices is that he's wrapped into Grantaire's leather jacket and pulled to his feet. They walk, but he doesn't really know where. He can barely set a foot before the other, clings to Grantaire, and feels hot, stinging tears rolling down his cheeks. When they're sitting again, he feels cold on his mouth, cold on his forehead and neck, then cold on his wrists. And then warmth. A lot of warmth. It's dark and cozy and soft. It smells good, smells like home, and he wonders if he's dead now. If this is what death it. Warmth and home.

After a while he notices a quiet voice singing. It's a melody in a language and words of a tune he has never heard before. He listens closely and eventually recognises Grantaire's voice. His limbs stop being numb and he finally finds himself back in control over his muscles. The shaking ceases.

He looks up at Grantaire, who has wrapped his arms around him and holds him safely, as if he wants to protect him from the outside world. Maybe that's just what Joly wants to believe, though.

“You have a nice voice.” he whispers, shyly holding his hand over his mouth.

Grantaire smiles at him in return and rubs his back soothingly. “You okay? I shouldn't have made you drink the beer. Throwing up is really no fun, huh?”

Joly nods, wishing he could tell him more of the truth. But then he'd have to think about the truth, and he doesn't want to do that. “Thank you.”

And suddenly there is something in Grantaire's eyes that hasn't been there before. Joly can't describe it, and for a moment he wonders if maybe it has been there before and he just didn't see it. It looks like … Knowing. Like being aware.

“Do you want to come with me to my place and sleep it off?”

He shakes his head.

“Fair enough. I guess no one wants to get too close to a potential rapist.”

He shakes his head again, quickly this time, pulling away. “It's not that!” He really doesn't want Grantaire to think that he had assumed the offer would be an invitation for sex. “I'm just having really big troubles sleeping at other people's places. I would just lie awake. And I'm ... kind of tired.”

He wonders if Grantaire is going to be upset. Maybe it had actually been an invitation for sex? But Grantaire just smiles and nods. “You need sleep.”

They get up. Slowly. He's not shaking anymore but his legs still feel weak.

“Hey, give me your phone.” Grantaire holds out his hand. Joly scrambles in his bag and hastily hands it to him. A few moments pass, in which Grantaire types something into it, then hands it back. “There you go. Call me up if you want to go out again. I don't care when or where, or for what, really. Just text me. I promise I'll be less of a fuckward. Okay?”

Joly stares at his phone. This is the first time ever that someone gave him his phone number. His heart. It's suddenly beating twice as fast and for a moment he wonders if he's going to have another attack. But as he looks back up at Grantaire, he feels a wide grin spreading across his own face. No, not an attack. Just happiness. “Okay!”

Grantaire pauses, blinking in surprise. He looks at Joly for a few seconds before shaking his head and letting out a little chuckle. “Cool. And don't be shy, yeah? I really do promise not to make you vomit again.”

Joly nods. He doesn't know what to say.

“Okay, then. There's Notre Dame. You see it? You'll find your way home from here?”

He nods again, still smiling.

“Cool. See you soon, then? No excuses, you call me, yeah?”

Not knowing whether to move already or not, he just nods again, still holding his phone clenched against his chest.

“Bye, then.”

“Bye.” He waits for Grantaire to turn around first, and he does. Only then he looks around, trying to figure out where to go. His apartment his not far away from here, luckily. Just as he wants to start walking, he hears Grantaire's voice again:

“Hey, Jolly?” 

He turns back to him. “Hm?”

“No more killing yourself, yeah?”

And again, he nods.


	3. Plans

The alarm rings at 7am. He waits for it to sound three times before he sits up and stops it after its fourth chime. He checks the time on his phone, checks his messages. Steps to the bathroom: Twenty-one. He goes back and walks it again. Twenty, good. Light on. Light off. Light on. Teeth. Rinsing. Stretching for twenty seconds for each side of the body. He smiles, and today it's almost honest.

He messaged Grantaire yesterday, and they agreed on meeting up today.

Three month have passed since they met in October. They have only met twice, though. One time in the same pub, right before Joly left to visit his aunt for Christmas, and the second time this January, accidentally between classes. But that didn't mean they didn't talk.

In fact, they are constantly texting. The moment Joly wakes up in the morning, he writes his first good morning text, and before he goes to bed, he writes a last good night text. Often those good night texts turn into long conversations, which either turn out to be very silly or very deep and philosophical.

Talking to Grantaire is so easy. Nothing Joly says feels like overstepping his boundaries, like pushing their friendship, or like offending someone's feelings. They don't talk about each other, not about their pasts at least, but about their ideas, opinions, aspirations. Joly soon notices that it doesn't require a backstory to understand a person. The fact that Grantaire uses whole sentences as adjectives only by separating the words with hyphens, that he makes Joly playlists whenever he feels bad, that he stayed up all night over Christmas to make sure Joly doesn't panic when being alone with his aunt and childhood memories, the fact that Grantaire is probably the best friend you can imagine just makes Joly's face light up every time he sees a new text from him. It is so easy to talk to him that Grantaire soon has to notice that Joly is by far not as shy as he first seemed when they talked face to face. For a few days in a row, Grantaire calls him 'fierce social justice fighter' but the joke wears off eventually and he stops again. He also soon has to face the reality that Joly is incredibly sarcastic.

R: WHAT THE HELL IS THAT  
Joly: What is what?  
R: WHAT DID I DO?  
Joly: Well, what did you do?  
R: I DON'T KNOW THAT IS JUST THE PROBLEM  
Joly: What the heck happened?  
R: I was writing this paper for class and suddenly everything is on the left. And it's not this weird centering thing that you can click.  
R: Asdjlkfajslkdja.  
Joly: Does cntrlZ-ing not help?  
R: No.  
R: And wait wtf  
Joly: ?  
R: There is like 150 pages of blank space.  
Joly: …. did you fall asleep while writing your paper and hit the keys with your face  
R: ….. this is entire not impossible  
Joly: I'm impressed.

Joly smiles, preparing some tea. Suddenly his phone buzzes.

R [1 new message]  
Finally managed to get up. U still waiting?

He replies with a yes. It doesn't matter that they said they would meet up at one o'clock and it's now one-thirty. It gave him more time to re-clean his entire apartment. Not that it was dirty or messy in the first place, but he feels safer now.

At first Joly thought that Grantaire was helping him to get better, the fact that waking up in the morning was suddenly so much easier made him really believe that he would finally be able to fight his illness. But as time proceeded, he had to admit that he is still just as bad. The only thing that has changed, it that Grantaire helps him cope. When ever it gets really really bad, he's got someone to talk to and the pain feels less heavy. Sadly, no matter how nice it feels not having to carry all of the weight alone, it is still there, and by no means any bit less harmful.

R [1 new message]  
Almost there. Forgot your last name, though. Where am I supposed to ring once I'm there?  
J: …... Joly.  
R: Shit. Right.  
J: Hurry. I'm excited.  
R: Me too. I call it the omg-this-must-be-what-tail-wagging-feels-like-mood.

Joly laughs and goes to the door. When it rings, he pushes the button and waits in the stairwell to let Grantaire know that he's on the right floor.

And then he finally sees him. Him and his black curls bouncing up and down as he hurries up the stairs. He looks tired. But he smiles. “Jolly!”

“Grand R!” They briefly hug – and it's a really nice hug – and go inside. Joly offers him some tea and they sit down on his bed. He would offer him a chair, but the only one he owns is a small, wooden one and it's really not comfortable at all.

“You have it nice. Small, but nice.”

Joly just smiles and sips his tea. 

“So … we talked about doing something over the long weekend next month, right? Any ideas yet?”

He shakes his head.

Grantaire grabs his phone. “Let's gather some, then. What do you think about … amusement parks?” 

“And roller coasters? No, they're dangerous, and really bad for your spine.” Grantaire laughs. “Besides, it's ridiculously expensive and I refure to pay money for that.”

“Okay. Fine. No amusement parks. What about going for a swim?”

“In a swimming pool?!” Joly sounds a little frightened.

“Yeah. A simple swimming bath. Why?”

Joly shakes defiantly his head. “No, no swimming pools. Have you any ideas how many germs there are in the water?!”

“Don't they kill all of them with chlorine?”

“Doesn't it worry you that they have to add poisonous chemicals to kill them?!”

Grantaire shrugs. “Alright, no swimming pools. Movies! You can't possibly be against going to the movies?! Going to a theater is clean and calm and-”

“Can you imagine that someone mistakes us for a couple, though?”

Grantaire frowns deeply and shakes his head. “I can't, no.”

“Well, I can. That would be too stressful. I don't want to be bothered by people while I try to enjoy a movie.”

“But Jolly, they will probably not even spare a thought.”

“I don't care. It feels weird to go to the movies, especially with a guy.”

And this time, Grantaire doesn't say anything else. Joly knows that he doesn't understand his reasons and he is so thankful to him that he just accepts it. Maybe he does understand after all. Maybe he just doesn't want Joly to feel like he has to explain himself. It's nice. It's what Joly likes about Grantaire. He never makes him feel weird.

However, silence does arise and they sit awkwardly on the bed, trying to think of ideas for activities.

“We could go to the sea side?” Grantaire quietly suggests.

Joly glances at him and nods, smiling.

“Just go and check into the first hotel we see, whether it's expensive or not, what do you think?”

“Can we afford that?”

“I can, don't worry.”

He doesn't say anything, but he is glad Grantaire said that. Otherwise he would have said the same. He's got enough on the bank to pay both of them a small trip like this. It's not like he has spent much money in the last two years.

“So you like the idea? No complaints? No worries?”

Joly chuckles. “It sounds lovely, actually.” Just as he wants to take another sip of his tea, he catches Grantaire glancing at him. “What is it, R?”

“You really have a pretty smile, you know.”

He shrugs. “I know. It's just hard. To, um, smile all the time, I mean.”

“I know.”

It's silent for another moment. Only the clock on the wall echoes through their smileless thoughts.

“What now?” Grantaire eventually asks as he finishes his tea, gets up and sets it down on the desk.

“We could watch a movie?”

Grantaire grins. “Sounds awesome. On your laptop, or..?” 

“My laptop, yes. I don't have a TV.” And indeed, his apartment is furnished with nothing but the bare necessities. A desk and a chair to study, a shelf for his books, and a bed. The living room and kitchen are separated by only a small, unstable looking table, no chair. There's no colour on the walls, no washing machine, no decoration. Not even curtains to draw. “Or do you mind? Is the screen too small?!”

“No, no it's fine.” Grantaire immediately halts Joly's uprising worry. “What movie?”

Joly shrugs. "You choose."

And so they sit down on the bed after Joly makes some more tea and brings a blanket for them to snuggle in – it's Grantaire who insists on that. After some attempts Grantaires finds a good link on the internet to La Science Des Rêves and they start it, Joly feeling more comfortable than he has ever been before.


	4. Canceled Plans, Different Activity

They are supposed to meet at six-thirty to catch the train at seven-thirty, enough time for Joly not to be scared that they will miss it. They are supposed to meet in a little brasserie in front of the train station, crowded enough for Joly not too worry about appearing like a lost, waiting soul without no one coming to pick him up. They were supposed to meet but Grantaire hasn't shown up yet.

Joly [18:25]: I'm here.  
Joly [18:30]: Not ordering anything, so you better be here on time :D  
Joly: [18:37]: R?  
Joly: [18:43]: Grantaire?  
Joly: [18:43]: Where are you? It's almost 7.  
Joly: [19:01]: Please tell me where you are. I'm waiting.

It's past seven now, Joly's heart beats up to his throat, the brasserie is slowly getting more crowded, now that it is time for dinner. It is chaotic and noisy both around and inside of him. He wants to run away, to flee, to not think about the fact that Grantaire has probably forgotten about him, probably hates him. He doesn't want to stay here any longer.

To distract himself he stares at his watch. But the more he stares the more the seconds hand seems to move irregularly fast. Is it cheating? One moment it hurries, the next it takes nearly two seconds to stir. Joly stares and stares and stares and stares, waiting for Grantaire to show up.

Seven-thirty, his watch eventually says. It's certain that they missed their train. "Fucking hell." He brusquely shoves his chair back and gets up. There's no way he will spend another minute in this bar. Fuck this. Fuck Grantaire.

On his way out he walks fast, holds his head down to avoid the glares of the people around him, walks fast despite the crowded brasserie. Too fast. Before he can stop it from happening, a man runs into him, full frontal, both of his creamed drinks spilling over Joly and drenching his clothes and hair with alcohol.

Joly lets out a yelp of terror, jolting back, but it's too late already. The man gasps loudly, cursing vividly before grabbing Joly by the shoulders to ensure that he is still able to stand and not completely knocked out by the collision. Joly glares down at his clothes, thinking that this is the perfectly terrible ending to a perfectly terrible day, thinking that Grantaire should learn about this to properly feel bad for him, hopefully feel bad for him, thinking that he should have stayed in bed today – and then the man laughs and Joly stops thinking.

He stops thinking and doesn't start again for a long while. His gaze meets the eyes of the man who ran into him and who freezes for a moment, too, mirroring his expression, before smiling with absolute tranquility. Smiling at him with white teeth and shimmering brown-green-ish eyes with golden speckles in it which are such an odd contrast to his dark skin. Like the moon's light contrasts the darkness of the night. The man's bald and although so much taller probably barely older than Joly, and there is something inexplicably soothing about his entire presence. With a gaping mouth, speechless, Joly keeps gazing up at him, him and his beautiful smile, and all his anger is suddenly taken away from him. The anxiety, the nervousness, the panic, the fear. All of it. It's as if this man put all of it into a warm blanket and put it aside for a nap.

“I am so ducking sorry!” the man laughs. “Not saying I am surprised, Courfeyrac was right, I should never have accepted this waiting job, it was only a matter of time before something like this would happen! And it happened with the White Russians, literally the sweetest, stickiest drink there is! I'm so sorry! Oh dear, look at your cute shirt! And your hair! Oh gosh, your hair! Oh dear, you need to wash the milk out, or it'll smell weird before you reach the metro. Come with me, I help you. Heh, Monsieur Fauchelevant?! I take a break! Spilled some drinks on this poor creature! Come with me, little one.”

Joly doesn't blink once while he listens to the man pouring words, but follows him without a question, holding his bag in a tight grip. Only when they approach the Women's bathroom Joly hesitantly points at the other door with the little man sign on it instead. The man nods.

“Alright, my bad. I'm really helplessly unlucky. Just the other day I said to Cosette, my friend who helped me get this job, just the other day I said to her, man, I wished I wasn't so goddamn unlucky. And as I say it I run into a door that suddenly opens in front of me! I attract the mauvaise fois like moths attract light! I just wish – here, have some paper towels and get rid of what's on your face first, or you'll rub in into your eyes and it'll hurt – I just wish my bad luck wouldn't affect other people all the time, you know.” He let the water of the sink run. “Do you see that scar? Burnt myself on a hot pan once, and with pan I mean the actual cooking device, not myself because I'm too hot, hah! Get it? Because I'm pansexual? Anyways.” He shakes his head, laughing a little with his finger under the streaming water to check the temperature. “I burnt myself and, well, that's just my bad luck. But – and now comes the unfair thing about my luck – as I let go of the pan, it falls to the floor, shatters and breaks! Now you see, this wasn't my pan but a friend's and I think he's still a little pissed. Okay, heated! We're ready to wash your hair!”

He reaches out to unbutton Joly's shirt but Joly quickly puts his hands over the man's and still looks as taken by surprise as before. He's still absolutely unable to find the right words to say and for a second he thinks that it's now going to get very unpleasant.

But the man merely laughs. “No, that's okay. I promise I won't look!”

Joly opens his mouth and although no sounds manage to emerge from his throat, the man takes his hands away.

“Alright. Perfectly fine, keep your shirt on. But then change yourself after we wash your hair or you'll freeze! It's too cold to walk outside with a wet shirt.”

Joly hesitates. This is the oddest situation he has ever been in, and the fact that this man, this mesmerizingly beautiful man with his beautifully mesmerizing smiles and eyes doesn't consider it weird at all, intrigues him so unspeakably much. This is so different to any situation he has ever been in, that his brain has no possibility to tell him what part of it could be changed. He just wants it to last, wants to push the strangeness to see how much of it can be part of his life.

Without another word, Joly locks the door behind them, drop his bag to the ground, takes off his shirt and leans over the sink.

The man smiles and drives his hands into Joly's hair to wet it. “Tell me if it's too hot or too cold, yes?” 

Joly nods, although he knows he won't tell him. Too shy. “Excuse me, Monsieur, but do you do this often?” he finally manages to bring his voice to work.

The man chuckles. “For one, my name is Lesgle de Meaux, not Monsieur, for two, no, I happen not to wash client's hair during my shift while I'm supposed to wait tables! Why? Do I look like I do?”

Joly smirks. “I was just wondering.” So this is something special for him, too. “I'm Joly, by the way.”

The man grins, using the handsoap to wash Joly's hair. This is the first time in many many years that Joly's hair is being washed differently to his very set, very orderly procedure, and while it usually scares him that he might one day have to change or stop the execution of his hair-wash-days, he is suddenly oddly relaxed about having a stranger rubbing his fingers all over his head.

“Is your name L'Aigle because you've got no hair, Monsieur?” he asks, knowing that this is not only very rude to ask but also very daring. Far too daring for his habitual shyness. 

“What?!” the man laughs. “What has my baldness to do with my name?!”

“Isn't there a bird called Bald Eagle?” Joly asks, wondering how much he embarrassed himself right now. Why doesn't he feel embarrassed? What is this?

“Oh. There is..!”

“I just thought that since your name means eagle..”

“That is ducking brilliant!” the man exclaims, pausing in his motions. “But no, it actually is my name. Written like Les-Gles, though, not L'Aigle. I never thought about…” he chuckles, proceeding to rinse Joly's hair. “Anyway. That's kind of cute, though. Thank you.”

And suddenly Joly understands why Grantaire insisted on calling him Jolly back then, and still does. He smiles. “I might keep calling you L'Aigle.”

L'Aigle makes him stand up straight and smiles warmly at him. “You may.” With a swift motion he takes off his own shirt and throws it over Joly's head to rub his hair dry.

Joly lets out a little squeak of surprise and then a giggle of enjoyment when he feels his hair being ruffled dry. Usually he air dries them, neatly combing them into place, and when they don't sit like they're supposed to when they finally dried, he sometimes washes them again. But now? He simply doesn't care about the outcome of his appearance. “You really didn't have to do that, you know.” he explains from underneath the shirt.

“I probably didn't have, no. But I have noticed that with all the bad luck I attract it's easier for people not to hate me when I try to make up for my mistakes again.”

“So it's true?”

“True?”

“That you're so unlucky?”

L'Aigle laughs. “You thought I was lying? No, sadly it is absolutely true. Well, sadly. It's not really anything to be sad about, actually. It makes me meet lots of people, the funniest kind. I happen to think that you learn most about a person when they're in distress. So why wait a year or two before distressing your friends? Why not starting the friendship with a nice, chaotic entry to see if we're forged in the same furnace, you know?”

As he speaks, still rubbing the hair dry, Joly's eyes trail down L'Aigle's bare torso. It is well-trained, the upper arms look like they could lift truly heavy objects, his chest is cluttered with scars, bruises and with coffeestain-like looking lighter shapes, but it's none of that that attracts Joly's attention. It's the tattoo that goes from his collar bone straight down to the end of his ribcage; five, black points, all about a centimeter wide.

Joly reaches out and trails his finger down to feel the points and L'Aigle stops to dry his hair, lifting the towel-replacement to look into Joly's face.

“What are those?” he asks curiously.

“Lives.” L'Aigle smiles, and although Joly isn't quite sure what he means with that, he only has to see the shimmer of grief in his eyes to somehow understand. L'Aigle's entire presence envelopes him in inexplicably thrilling warmness. It feels as if everything is exciting and wrong, yet absolutely safe and right. With his hand still on the tattoo's he goes to stand on his tiptoes and kisses him. Kisses this absolute stranger who he has met less than fifteen minutes ago, yet trusts so unreasonably much. L'Aigle keeps his hand on Joly's head to hold the shirt there, he doesn't kiss back, but he doesn't break it either. So when Joly notices it, and he realises what he is doing, he pulls back and looks at him in surprise.

L'Aigle is the first one to break the silence, with a little smirk. “I thank you for that.”

“I apologise.” But he keeps his hand on the tattoos, and doesn't step back.

“You don't have to. But do you mind telling me why?”

Joly shakes his head. “It's light that attracts moths.”

“What?” he laughs in surprise.

“I mean … you said moths attract light. Earlier on? You said you attract bad luck like moths attract light. But it's light attracting moths, no?”

L'Aigle laughs again, louder this time, his hands are still on Joly's head, as if they're scared to move. “And?”

“I don't know.” Joly doesn't even think about breaking the gaze, he just keeps his head tilt back to look into the man's eyes. The feeling is still there, and now it surrounds them, making the air appear like electricity.

L'Aigle chuckles a little shakily, and slowly, very slowly, as if scared to do something wrong, to move too brusquely he brings one hand to cup Joly's cheek, the other one, still holding his shirt, goes to circle around Joly's waist, pulling him closer. When their chests touch, he leans down and lets their lips meet.

Joly doesn't know how long the kiss lasts, nor how he suddenly finds himself with his back against the cold bathroom wall, but he is well aware that he is to blame, that he was it who deepened the kiss mercilessly and presses himself so needily against L'Aigle's body. L'Aigle merely complies, gingerly leaning down to ravish Joly's neck with pecks and nips.

This, the whole situation, the whole scenery is nothing Joly thought he would ever take part of. It is so new, so absolutely not like anything he would ever do, nothing like anything he ever even dared thinking of, that he can't help but doubt that he is even still in his own body. Maybe he is dead and is now living the life of someone else? Someone who is blessed to meet such a funny, gorgeous looking man like L'Aigle and live such a chaotic, unplanned life. And so he drives one hand down to the hem of L'Aigle's jeans, unbuttoning them without any hesitation, because maybe, if this is not him, maybe there is no reason to hesitate to live. 

When he pushes down L'Aigle's pants and underwear, clumsily but straightforwardly reaching for his cock, and L'Aigle – in surprise and in reply – sucks fiercely the spot on Joly's neck which he was just about to grace with a little kiss, Joly's throw his head back and lets out a tiny moan.

“J-jolie, you are not a prostitute or something, are you?” L'Aigle pants, holding tightly onto the smaller man.

“No, not at all.” Joly laughs and drops his shirt to the ground. It is the first time in many years that a laugh escapes him that easily. It sounds free.

“Oh, good, because I could really not afford tha-” He can't finish his sentence. Joly's hand twitches, stroking his length tentatively and a loud gasp is drawn from his throat. He closes his eyes and as Joly keeps his gaze on him, curiously, stroking in various speeds to see what causes the strongest effect, his breath hitches, stops and takes up again until it is nothing but a ragged mess.

He keeps his eyes closed, even when Joly takes his hand to guide it down to his own crotch. He has undone his pants, too and desperately brings one leg around L'Aigle's waist, attempting to pull him closer.

“This is not-... Do you except me to make it much longer?” L'Aigle chuckles shakily, bringing his kiss to Joly's in an attempt of self-control.

With all the shyness lost, Joly's hand moves daringly fast. Although their lips keep pressed against each other, and although there is a hand between his legs and one of L'Aigle's fingers rests exactly in the right spot, his eyes are wide opened to observe every whimper in L'Aigle's expression. 

Suddenly L'Aigle is biting down on Joly's bottom lip, as if to prevent himself from moaning, then pulls back to exhale shakily. He wants to say something but Joly doesn't let him, twisting and jerking his wrist until L'Aigle shuts his eyes tightly, presses their foreheads together and cums into his hand with a loud moan.

After a moment of silence, L'Aigle pants apologies against Joly's lips, but there is no need to. Joly is overwhelmed by pure bliss. Besides, there is still blood rushing in his ears and a hand resting between his legs, and he really doesn't want it to be all calm already.

He waits for the other man to catch his breath and then rocks his hips forwards. L'Aigle's eyes blink open and as Joly is reminded of their extraordinary colour, of the green, of the brown, of the golden dots in it, the excitement in the pit of his chest and stomach arises again.

A smile appears on L'Aigle's lips and he tries to move his hand a little. Joly mirrors his smile because there is no reason not to smile, and he feels heavy and light at the same time, and he doubts he has ever wanted anything as much as this. When he moves to clasp both of his arms around L'Aigle's strong shoulders he remembers that his hands are dirty, sticky – and he doesn't care. For the first time in so many years he simply doesn't care.

When their lips meet again Joly feels his heart starting to race in a surely unhealthy manner, because L'Aigle's kisses go from gentle and cautious to persistent and deep. L'Aigle is still so painfully warm from before, and Joly has no doubts; he will catch fire any moment. Not that he minds either of that, he just wants L'Aigle to move his fingers again, those two fingers right there, maybe curl them – and then he does exactly this, and Joly's knees nearly give away.  
He gasps into L'Aigle's mouth, again and again, every time it feels just right, pulling him as close as he can with the leg he has around his waist, almost to ensure that L'Aigle's hand stays where it is, tucked between their two bodies.  
“Are you alright, Jolie? Is this okay?” L'Aigle asks but Joly just distractedly nods his head. Instead of an answer he only manages to moan brokenly, and he smiles when L'Aigle lets out a little, warm chuckle.

When L'Aigle suddenly speeds up the pace, Joly doesn't know if he can continue while holding himself on his own two legs. They feel as if they're going to give in any second, his entire body has turned to liquid. But just as he thinks those thoughts, he feels a strong arm wrapping tightly around him to pull him up, so that with his leg still around the other man's middle his entire weight lies on L'Aigle's waist and not on his own two legs.

And then he can't hold himself anymore. He rocks his hips and prays for L'Aigle not to lose his pace. Somehow he doesn't and it’s the best and worst thing that has ever happened to him. He feels like he's going to melt under all the touches – L'Aigle taking up on trailing his teeth over the sensitive skin on his neck again – and the ball of anticipation that sat in the lower part of his body suddenly takes over everything, climbs into his head and makes it impossible to think straight anymore. He buries his face in L'Aigle's shoulders. He can’t take much more, he knows that. He can’t last. He’s already so close and all it takes is L'Aigle's smile pressing against his neck, and he feels himself falling.  
Digging his fingers into L'Aigle's nape, he lets out a small cry. It's by far not as loud and manly as L'Aigle's climax, but they both know anyways, and L'Aigle rubs him through it, until he loses all his tenseness and exhales slowly.

For a moment it's silent. Joly keeps his arms around L'Aigle's shoulders, their chests pant against each other for a while before Joly brings his leg down to stand on his own two feet again and L'Aigle, still holding him, cups his cheek again. They look at each other and Joly doesn't care where both of their fingers have been, that this is would usually freak him out. He only cares about how nicely cool L'Aigle hand feels on his burning cheeks and that it still isn't strange.

“Are you okay?” L'Aigle eventually asks, smiling a little, timidly, almost worried.

Joly, still panting ever so slightly, nods and mirrors the smile, secretly wishing that it would look just as beguiling as L'Aigle's. He wants to tell this stranger that this is not how he usually behaves. That he has never – ever – before been taken over by lust, and that he has surely never thrown himself so shamelessly on another person. That he has never even fantasized about … well … at least not in a public restroom, for sure. That this is very embarrassing. Or should be. Because weirdly, through circumstances Joly can't quite name yet, it isn't embarrassing at all. It feels warm. Like the inside of Grantaire's jacket.

“And you?”

“I'm fine, yes.” L'Aigle laughs, his tummy vibrating against Joly's. “A little … surprised. This … escalated quickly, one could say. I surely didn't expect this to happen when I started my shift this evening.

“Your boss must be waiting for you.”

“That's fine! Monsieur Fauchelevant is a very understanding man. Not that this means I should take advantage of that but I am sure he won't be too mad.”

Joly stiffens and his hands slip down to rest on L'Aigle's chest again, on the tattoo of the five lives, as if ready to push him away, although it is not his intention. “You are not going to tell anyone about this, are you?” he asks, quiet panic mingling into his voice. He doesn't expect L'Aigle to pick up on it, but he does. He smile faints and he shakes his head reassuringly.

“No, don't worry. Not if that bothers you. It's nothing I would know how to brag about, anyways. And I doubt anyone would believe me, to be honest.”

Joly nods, relaxing a little. It is too easy to trust this stranger, he notices, but he can't stop himself. “I'm sorry.”

“You really don't have to!” His laugh is loud and warm, but he interrupts himself quickly. “Oh. But we should probably be quiet and … get our pants back on?” They do so, giggling silently. Just as Joly closes the last button, he remembers something and gasps:

“We're blocking the bathroom! People might be waiting!”

L'Aigle covers his mouth with his hand. “True. And you're still topless. Do you want my shirt-... Ah, no. That's still wet. Um...”

And this time it is Joly who can't hold back a laugh. He shakes his head and points at his bag. “When I ran into you, I was just-”

“I ran into you! Don't take the blame off me.”

“We ran into each other, it's really not just your fault, silly.” Joly has never used a pet name ever before, and he pauses for a brief moment, trying to figure whether he likes the taste of it on his tongue or not. “I was just about to take the train for a weekend trip.”

L'Aigle's eyes widen, peeking out of his shirt that he just put on, apparently not caring that it's still wet. “You're kidding, right?!” he shout-whispers with horror. “I didn't really make you miss your train, right?!”

It's only now that Joly remembers what happened before all this. For a brief moment the anger against Grantaire's inability to be on time awakens in his chest, but he only needs to look into L'Aigle's eyes again to feel it dim again. Maybe all of this was not really a reason to be upset. They can still go somewhen else. Grantaire probably didn't feel well. Joly – more than anyone – should know that sometimes … you just can't. He smiles and shakes his head. “No. Don't worry. I was just about to go home. The guy I was supposed to go with … um … forgot about me.”

L'Aigle frowns, washing his hands and watching him open his bag and looking through it to find a shirt to put on. “Sounds like a shitty boyfriend.”

“Not my boyfriend. And not that shitty, actually.” He gets up and starts buttoning the shirt. L'Aigle steps closer and with a timid smirk he starts helping him. “I think I overreacted. It's not like we paid for the train already. In fact, I should be worried instead of angry. Maybe I go check on him right now.”

His hands still on the button's of Joly's shirt, L'Aigle pauses and looks at him, a faint shimmer of infatuation playing on his face. “You seem to be a really good friend.” 

“I'm really not, I fear.” Joly scoffs. A scoff? That isn't like him at all. Or is it? Anyways. “But maybe I should try a little better.”

L'Aigle tilts his head to the side and if Joly were a little more attentive he would maybe see how intrigued this stranger is by him. “I guess we should all try to be a better friend.”

“I doubt that you have to become a better friend!” Joly laughs. His chest feels light, there is suddenly so much air filling his lungs, and his head is so easily held high. How? He didn't know. But he never wanted this feeling to leave again. “I don't know you for very long but I think it is quite safe to say that you're a really awesome person who cares quite wonderfully for his friends. I mean. You cared quite wonderfully for me.”

A mischievous grin appears. “I assume you mean the hair-washing part?” 

Joly crosses his arms, and his grin is probably twice as big as L'Aigle's. “I assume so.”

Suddenly he feels his chin being lifted up and the softness of L'Aigle's lips against his own. He smiles into the kiss, reciprocating while listening to the skipping rhythm of his heartbeat.

“Maybe we should go now.”

“Maybe.” Joly chuckles. He pecks L'Aigle's lips once more and then goes to grabs his bag. Can it be that it's less heavy than before? “I guess it was a pleasure to meet you?”

L'Aigle unlocks the door and holds it open. There is – to Joly's relief – no one waiting to go inside. “A true pleasure.” he smiles. The smile is smaller than it was before, but it still reaches his eyes and illuminates his face, still gives him this aura of calmness and pure happiness. Joly almost regrets having to say goodbye already. He would like to stay in this bubble of newness a little longer, and to some degree he even worries about how long this relaxing excitement will stay with him.

“Bye, then.” But tonight he isn't afraid of saying goodbye. With an unburdened jump he turns around to jauntily makes his way out of the bar, not looking back even once.


	5. Water

Joly can't fathom the sudden energy he feels. His entire body seems to be be filled with electricity instead of blood as his feet keep carrying him all the way down to the Seine, and even when he finally finds the spot where he said goodbye to Grantaire for the first time, even when he falls down on a bench and has to clasp his chest to catch his breath, even then he still feels strong enough to shout out L'Aigle's name into the black starless sky. He doesn't do that, of course. Instead he grabs his phone and calls his friend, wiping the sweat from his forehead.

It takes a moment before Grantaire picks up. “I'm sorry...”

“Grantaire! You're alright! Oh thank god! Where do you live?”

“I … what?”

“Where do you live? Your street! I'm near the Arc, that's not far from where you live, right? Tell me where I have to go and I'm there as soon as possible!”

There's a moment of silence. “I don't live anywhere near the Arc.”

“Doesn't matter, I take the metro.”

“Rue Haguette. St. Denis, Porte de Paris.”

“Alright! I'm there as soon as I'm there!” he laughs and hangs up. It takes a painfully long time for the metro to drive all the way up to the north of Paris, but when it finally does arrive, Joly has enough breath to follow google map's description to Rue Haguette while running again. Luckily he hears Grantaire's voice as soon as he reaches the street. It's coming from one of the newer buildings and when Joly looks up he appears a little cigarette lighter on floor three flicking as signal down to the street.

He rings only once, for when he reaches floor three, Grantaire has already opened the door. He's standing in its frame, in sweatpants and a wide, bulky bandshirt, his hair is even greasier than usually and his eyes are sunken so deep into their holes that you can barely see the white. But Joly takes barely any time to halt. He jumps the last few meters and throws his arms around Grantaire's neck. He does notice that his breath smells of alcohol and he is not any less drenched in sweat than Joly, but he really can't bring himself to care. He's too distracted by the hundreds of emotions that overwhelm him.

“Oh, Grantaire!” he pulls back and grins. “I need to tell you what happened tonight!” 

After he drags Grantaire inside his own apartment, ignoring the mess – being able to ignore the mess! –, after Grantaire points wordlessly at the couch and they sit down, Joly sighs happily and starts telling him what happened. It's a little wild and unordered, his words stumble out faster than he can think, but it seems to be entertaining enough, because Grantaire's face lights up. He smirks when Joly shortens some parts of the story with a wave of the hand and a “you know...” and then even pats Joly's back when he hugs him again, enthused.

“And it's not what we did, you know! It was just … just that me … in a restroom! I'm never comfortable in public restrooms! But he made it so very … so very … all right! He has this thing, as if he could make everything okay again. It's like a golden light enveloping his skin, and...”

“I get it, I get it. He's very handsome and you had a good fuck.”

“No, you don't understand, R! I've never done this before!”

“Kinky bathroom sex as a first time, seems neat to me?” 

Joly laughs and shakes his head, barely noticing how Grantaire tilts his head to the side, how he is gazed at. “It's more than that! I mean, I never let myself … just … do things. I never got so overwhelmed by my, um, lust, I … I never felt like this before!”

“That's okay, buddy, there's no shame in being into guys.”

They stick their tongues out at each other. “No, of course not. But that's the thing. I'm not gay.”

Grantaire snorts. “Well, buddy, I'm not trying to scare you right now, but you do sound like you're very obviously into that guy.”

“I'm not though! I mean … I'm not …” He sighs and falls back on the couch, resting his legs on Grantaire's lap and closes his eyes. “I thought I'm not capable.”

He feels Grantaire patting his knee. “People change.”

“Hm?”

“You're a person, too. You're not excluded from that change.”

Joly smiles. With his eyes closed he can still see L'Aigle's face. The so interestingly mixed colours of his eyes and the way they're filled with the smile that lights up his entire laugh. “As majestic as an eagle.”

Grantaire snorts. “Oh, shit, you're really deep into that guy.”

“No!” Joly laughs and props himself up on his elbows to look at Grantaire. “It's his name! L'Aigle. He's named … eagle.”

Grantaire slowly shakes his head, then reaches out to feel Joly's forehead. “You sure you okay, buddy? I really don't mind if you're into dudes, but being into animals, that's kinda fucked.”

Joly slaps his hand away. “Idiot. Don't play dumb.”

They laugh but Grantaire's grin quickly fades into a softer version of itself, becoming almost melancholic. “I'm sorry I wasn't there. I mean, I'm glad this happened. I've never seen you that happy. But I'm sorry...”

“It's okay. I'm just glad you're alright.”

And then Grantaire's smile fades away completely. He gets up. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Water, preferably.”

Grantaire nods and disappears though a door of which Joly's assumes it leads to the kitchen. While he is alone he takes the opportunity to look around. It's not a big apartment. The entry leads into hallway of three doors. One probably belonging to the bathroom, the other to the kitchen and the third to the room in which Joly is currently sitting. It's a relatively big room but with the couch in the middle of it and a bed – a simple mattress with white sheets – in one corner, there is not much space to walk around. Especially because wherever there is some free space, papers, books, clothes, bottles, cans and even forgotten pizza boxes lie on the ground.

“It's messy, I know. I would have cleaned up if I knew you'd visit.” Grantaire says as he comes back, two glasses of water in his hands. Joly reaches out to take one but Grantaire quickly hands him the other one.

“It's fine. You couldn't know.”

“Actually I thought you were going to be mad at me and not talk to me for a month.”

“That's kind of what I planned on doing actually.” Joly shrugs sheepishly and sips his water. “But then I ran into L'Aigle and I somehow remembered that it's probably not your fault and that I should be worried, not angry.”

Grantaire sits next to him again. “I owe this man something, then.”

“We both do, I guess. I don't like the idea of me being mad at you.”

“Hm. Do you want to know why?”

“Why what?”

“Why I wasn't there.”

Joly looks at Grantaire and sees how the usual sparkle of wit and careful observation in his eyes is hidden behind a veil of dullness. He seems endlessly tired and Joly feels like he knows why Grantaire wasn't there on time.

“We've got a whole life before of us. It doesn't matter that you weren't there. I'm sure there will be more long weekends to come. You're okay, that's all that matters.”

Grantaire looks away, frowning, and takes a sip of his water. His voice sounds choked. “I'm glad you're okay, too, Jolly.”

His gaze stays tucked to Grantaire's profile for a moment and then, when everything suddenly makes sense, he swaps their glasses with a firm hand. Grantaire turns around to him immediately, panicked, irritated.

“What the-...”

But Joly stops him. “You drink my water, all of it, now, and I'm going to bring the vodka back to the kitchen.” He stands up, feeling Grantaire's defiant glare on him. He ignores it deliberately and leaves to the kitchen, which is, to his surprise by far less messy than the living room. Only the countless empty cups of coffee make it looks less clean than it probably is. Looking around for a moment, he decides to pour the clear liquid, which happens not to be water at all, into the sink. When he comes back he finds his actual water glass empty, and Grantaire curled up on the couch, his legs brought to his chest and his forehead resting on his knees.

“Fuck off.” he mumbles effortlessly when Joly sits next to him, frowning, and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Fuck off while you can. I'm going to drown your good mood and you're going to hate me. I'm an embarrassment and a fucking disappointment.”

“You're not. You're really not.” Grantaire huffs and although Joly isn't deterred by that, he certainly is taken aback by Grantaire's mask of cheerful cynism and sarcasm having fallen so quickly. He wonders how much effort it took to keep it up. “I love you, R.” He leans closer and rests his head on Grantaire's shoulder, circling his arm around him. “You're my best friend, well … my only friend. But you're probably the best only friend one can have. You don't realise how much I owe you...”

“I can't have done that much, regarding the fact that it only takes one evening with that eagle to make you be the happiest you've ever been. We've been friends for months now and I never made you that happy.”

Joly stays quiet for a moment. He doesn't want to lie. Lies have never cheered him up and he believes that it is the same for Grantaire. Especially not, since it feels like the first time that Grantaire dares being so honest with him. “But you have kept me alive. Excessive happiness, euphoria, that comes and goes, but it's not as vital as the wish to live, no?”

Grantaire doesn't reply but he leans into Joly's touch.

“You're not an embarrassment, and even less a disappointment. There's nothing disappointing in having troubles to cope, and nothing embarrassing in trying anyways. I mean, maybe it's important that everything is shit sometimes. So that … so that it can get better again. No one cares about the sun when it's always shining, right?”

Grantaire snorts and Joly buries his face in his neck.

“I do love you, R. I'm sorry I only talked and thought about myself today and ignored you so much. I didn't realise that-...” That he was too blinded by said euphoria to believe that Grantaire didn't feel as happy as he did. Was that the price of happiness? Egoism? “I wish I could share my happiness...”

With the smallest motion, Grantaire moves the one arm he has around his own knees to bring his hand to Joly's shoulder. “Will you stick around even though you can't?”

“R, of course, I-...”

He turns his head to look at Joly and his eyes seem to plead. “Will you stay even if you can't make me happy? Will you still let me be your friend even though I'm not enough? Even though there is someone else who makes you so much happier than I do?”

It is nearly impossible to understand the expression that reflects the emotions in Grantaire's voice. His face his almost free from any expression, his lips are only slightly pursed, but with the slight frown that knits his eyebrows he nearly looks like a defiant child. Only nearly, though, for his eyes are wide opened and filled with so much pain and desperation that the haze of hopeless can barely cover it. And Joly understands. Grantaire suffers from his inability to not just care anymore. Because he does care, he worries, and hopes, and it drives him sick, it hurts him that nothing is good, or at least better. And Joly understands so, so well.

He leans in and presses a kiss to Grantaire's forehead. “I will, I promise.” he says quietly and hopes that Grantaire hears how much he means it.


	6. Of Course

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the way I used your beautiful ficlet isn't too upsetting for you.

Sadly, the euphoria that arose thanks to the adventures of the night this late winter doesn't stay around for long.

When Spring comes and with it the preparation for the exams stress crawls back into Joly's life. He gets soon overwhelmed by the extra homeworks his professors give him and even the daily texting with Grantaire has to take up less space in his life. The good thing is that Grantaire is just as busy revising for his finals as Joly is, and sometimes the latter receives a message at three in the morning saying something along the lines of “i wonder if it's a bad idea to down an entire pot of coffee now.” soon followed my a message going “it is not a question of whether it's a bad idea or not. The question is HOW bad the idea is and HOW much my future self will hate me.”

Although he is busy from morning to night, Joly takes all his exams with a good feeling, believing that he might even pass all of his classes. And sometimes, when he doubts, and feels anxiety taking over him, he closes his eyes and remembers the golden shimmer around and in L'Aigle's green-brown-ish eyes, how warm he made him feel like, and how alright everything was when he smiled at him.

Sometimes his picture just appears in his mind at night, and then his entire body starts to tingle, a weird feeling tickling him in the pit of his stomach. He loves that feeling, and yet he hates it because it makes it impossible for him to breathe and think of anything else but the softness of L'Aigle's lips against his own. It's distracting. Nice, but distracting. And hopefully not caused by a deadly sickness he needs to research eventually. 

It's in late March, shortly before his very last exam, when Joly is suddenly woken up by a loud, persistent knocking on the door. He freezes, not moving. His phone says that it's late after midnight. Holding his breath he listens into the returning silence. What was this? All of a sudden the knocking starts again and this time someone speaks: “Joly, please, open.” It's Grantaire's voice.

Joly jumps up and rushes to the door, yanking it open. There he stands, his friend. Shaking and drenched in his own sweat, he holds himself against the door frame and is barely able to look up.

“I can't do this.” his voice is hoarse, clenched.

Joly pulls him inside, makes him sit on his bed. “What happened? You look horrible.”

“Thanks, buddy, I appreciate.” There is no humour in his voice at all. He sounds pained. “You don't have anything to drink, by any chance?”

“I, uh, I think I've got cooking wine?”

“Wine! Hah!” Grantaire pulls his lips into a grin, giving him a grimace that almost looks scary. The grin falls again and he stays motionless for a second, only the heavy shaking forcing his body to move. “Wine sounds perfect.” he finally answers.

Joly gets up and to take the cheap wine out of the fridge. He hands it to Grantaire, who unscrews the bottle and downs half of it before setting it down again. His eyes are closed, and his hands hold the bottle so cramped and so desperately that even when he leans back to rest against the wall, his posture appears strained.

“What happened?” Joly carefully asks again. Grantaire shakes his head.

“It started out so well, this fucking day. Smashingly, in fact. I tried. It was going to be today, Joly. The most-wonderful-day-in-all-of-my-fucked-up-little-life-day, that was supposed to be today. And it was good. Everything was okay. Woke up late, cool, missed a class or two, who cares. Everything was okay, until, of course, I fucked breakfast up. Burnt toast. Alright, shit, but who cares, it's just breakfast. Just-coffee is fine, right? Had still two classes in my day, so I walk to the Sorbonne. Right then and there, of course, is when it starts to rain. So, okay. Whatever. A little bit of water can't stop me, right? Neither could the stupid vending machine in between my two classes. Fucking ate my change. Twice. No. It couldn't. Because none of that was my fault. It just wasn't. Even the toast wasn't my fucking fault, Joly. Really. It was the toaster. Fucking russian roulette for three weeks now, it either gives you back warm, wet bread or burnt piece of fucking coal. Not my fault. Life is great. It has to. It was still a great day. It had to.”

Joly listens silently, looking at his friend who's hands and eyes are so tensely closed. He doesn't get what Grantaire is trying to say, but something in the pit of his stomach tells him that it's nothing good at all.

“Until, of course, I go to my second class. It's a shit class. We need to draw charts for statistics and I think, maybe it was the toast after all. Maybe it was the toast that can't keep my fingers still long enough to draw a straight line, and maybe it's the same toast that makes me reach into my bag only to find nothing. Fucking nothing. Of Course. Because I thought today was going to be the best day ever. But there is nothing in my bag, because I'm stupid, and I'm fucked, and that girl next to me asks if I need help. And I mean, shit, maybe I did, but all I could do was grin and charm and make some excuses about wanting to do my chart as good as possible. You know me, Joly, fuck, you know me. But then class is over and I make my way down to St Michel, and there are so many bars, so many bars, and I have the money, I know I have enough. But I don't let myself go, because I think that the toast shouldn't be able to make me go, so I go down to the Seine, to relax, trying my very best not to hyperventilate, but I am, of course, because I can't breathe. My chest. It was tight and...” Grantaire finally lets go of the bottle with one hand and presses his fist against his own chest. His eyes keep being shut in pain. “I can't breathe because my chest is … My heart feels like it fucking rams against my ribs, my throat … why doesn't it … why doesn't it just cooperate. Closes, clenches, it fucking hurts to swallow.” He chokes on his words, his chest wells up and down quickly for a moment without inhaling any air. He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a chug. Two. Three. He sighs. “It was still raining, of course, and I wondered; What made me think that this was going to be the best day ever, again? I thought, maybe walking will make my body function again, and so I start walking. I thought, Joly is maybe at home, maybe he will make my brain function again, and so I start trying to find your apartment again. But everything is so loud, and there are so many bars, and I can't concentrate, and everything hurts. And then I do find your apartment, and I knock, and you give me wine, and I don't fucking wonder anymore, shit; I know that it's not the best day of my life.” He empties the entire content of the bottle and then, finally, opens his eyes again and stares at it. His eyes seem blacker than ever before, “Of course”.

Joly is silent for a few, long minutes. Then he takes a deep, shaky breath and sits next to Grantaire, leaning against the wall, too. “Should I not have given you the wine?”

Grantaire glances over to him and shrugs.

Joly feels his insides starting to panic. But he holds it back. That's not fair. He mustn't. He needs to be there for Grantaire now. If only he had known all this before, if only he could have been there for him before tonight. He swallows thickly. “Will you let me be there next time you try to … have a great day?”

Grantaire's lips bend up, only briefly, humourlessly. “I will fuck up anyways. It's of no use to try again.”

“Grantaire...”

“No, it's true. I always fuck up. I don't even know why I keep trying.”

Joly bites his lips and looks helplessly at his friend, who he doesn't want to give up, ever. “It's not your fault, you know. It's our brains. They're sick, just like your stomach can be sick when you eat too much bad food. It's not your fault, you can't control it, same as cancer patient can't control their cancer. If you can't make yourself be happy or if you can't make yourself to get out of bed.”

“But a person with stomach ache can just stop eating shit, and a person with cancer will try to fight it with a chemo. I do the same, with the wine, the vodka, the brandy. I do the same, I try to fight my brain, I try to make myself happy, am I not? Am I not fucking trying? So why does it just make me even sicker?!” He closes his eyes once more and when he speaks again he sounds defeated, all the energy in his voice is lost. “I just want to look at the sun without falling apart.”

Joly thinks of something to say. When Grantaire sighs and shakes his head and he still hasn't found anything to reply, he gets up and sets the kettle on the fire, then comes back, kneeling on his bed next to Grantaire, just looking at him.

Grantaire glances at him, tries another smile and then lets out a long sigh. “Do you sometimes think that memories can be like tumors?”

He thinks about it for a moment, hesitating, then nods. “If they're poisonous enough...”

Grantaire nods, emptying the bottle. After putting it on the ground he looks at his hands. “Why do you never tell me about your past, Joly?”

Joly frowns, straightening his shoulders, as if not to be smaller than Grantaire. No, he will not talk about it now. He is already on the verge to panic, and that only by thinking about Grantaire's problems. If he starts thinking about his own now, too, he will definitely fall apart. So he shrugs, replying cooly: “Because I don't need anymore tumors.”

Grantaire nods.

It's only when both of them are nestled up in blankets with tea that Grantaire dares talking again. “You know,” he mumbles, “maybe I will tell you if I try having a great day again.”

“I'm glad you say that. Do you think it will be any time soon?”

“Do you think you will be okay with it being any time soon?”

“Do you think you could wait for after the finals?”

Grantaire smiles a little and nods. “Do you think I can make it?”

Joly mirrors the smile. “I think that, yes.”

This night – or rather for the rest of the night – Grantaire stays over with Joly. They talk until the sun rises, until both of them are too tired to keep their eyes open, until their breaths align and the way they're nestled into each other is so perfectly comfortable that resisting sleep becomes impossible. Both dream of the future.


	7. Months Later, Not Great But Better

“I can do it, I swear!” Grantaire yells.

“You can't, and I won't let you! We're not going through the shaking, sweating and crying thing again, only because you want to prove me that you can sit in a bar surrounded by drinks!”

“I can do it, fucking hell!”

“You can't, you can't, you can't!”

“I can, I can, I can!”

Joly lets out a scream of frustration and briefly thinks about throwing his phone across the room. “Then go alone! I refuse to be the witness to your failure!”

Then it's silent. “Fine.” Grantaire eventually huffs. “I go alone, then.”

“Grantaire, no!” But it's too late. He already hung up. Hastily, Joly calls him back, only to repeat the same warning again, with more emphasis this time: “Grantaire, no!”

“But you just said that I can go alone.”

“Ducking hell, R! You know very well that I won't let you go alone.” And it's in the very moment when Joly utters the word 'ducking' that a brilliant thought strikes him. Ducking as a censored replacement for fucking, is probably L'Aigle favourite word. He uses it all the time and if Joly had only one word to describe his eagle, it would probably be exactly this one. It shows how kind-hearted, how silly, and yet how unpretentious he is. How much he loves jokes, even in situations of swearing. Even when he runs into literal or metaphorical closed doors, he will still only curse with a 'duck' because nothing is ever bad enough for him to say 'fuck'. And that's what Joly loves so much about him. No frowns, never, no matter what happens. It is simply impossible for Joly to hide his admiration for L'Aigle. There he was, making up diseases and taking pills against phantoms in his head, when he could – and should – do so much better, and L'Aigle, who suffers through so much bad luck will still laugh and shrug his shoulders at the end of the day. “At least now, I have a good story to tell” is his motto. Admiration, and so much love.

Joly doesn't know what he would do if he hadn't decided to go back to the train station bar a few weeks after the first incident.

~~~

It was in a ridiculously dark night of a ridiculously dark day, which Joly had spent studying in the library. On his way home, well, to his apartment, not home, his feet felt heavy and everything, even the innocent streetlamps standing on the side of the road, annoyed him. It was all too much for his head which had been forced to absorb knowledge for hours now. He thought of how he would avoid talking to Grantaire tonight – only not to risk being accidentally too rude – and how even a cold shower wouldn't make him feel better now. But then he stopped. In the middle of the street, he stopped, shook his head, and turned around. L'Aigle had made him feel better the first time, maybe he could fix him again?

And so he entered the train station bar, a knot of trembling emotions stuck in his throat.

The bar was crowded already, and because he found no seat at the counter, but didn't want to look too lost, he went straight to bathroom. No one noticed him. The nervousness of actually being close to meeting L'Aigle again, made him clean his hand overly carefully, three or four times in a row before he got rid of the feeling that there was some sort of glue sticking to them. It was only then that he realised that this was the bathroom in which he had so wantonly lost all his composure. It was strange to stand here so alone. The knot of emotions grew and made it hard to breathe for a moment. He wanted to see L'Aigle again, yes, a lot. He wanted to feel as happy as he did that night when he ran all the way down to the Seine, and maybe he even wants to feel the same kind of … wanting again. But he didn't want to be disappointed. What if everything wasn't more than an illusion? Something he only made up in his mind and L'Aigle really wasn't more that a disgusting dudebro and respectless bathroom-fucker who only wanted a quick hook-up?

“Amazing.” Joly huffed sarcastically under his breath, closing the door behind him. “Bathroom-fucker. Now I even sound like Grantaire. Simply amazing.”

His heart beat crazily against his chest and he didn't know whether to look or not to look for L'Aigle. He didn't want to be surprised by L'Aigle suddenly standing next to him, but he also didn't want to be the first one to appear him and then having to pretend that he didn't, acting all surprised. In fact, he still didn't know if he wants to appear him at all. The thought of L'Aigle not being as mesmerising as he remembered him was simply terrifying. For three weeks he had woken up and gone to bed with L'Aigle's smile on his mind. If he now realised that all this had been nothing more than his brain playing tricks on him again, he didn't know how he could survive it.

With Grantaire's help, probably.

“Is something the matter, Monsieur?” The young girl behind the counter asked when Joly finally found a place to sit down. Joly, so sunken in thoughts, didn't even notice the 'Monsieur', but when he looked up and met the girl's eyes, he was dragged out of his anger and confronted with surprise. The girl had the same black eyes, black hair and pale-ish white skin that he had, and if she wasn't two or three sizes bigger than him and dressed in a yellow, flowery summer dress, they could have been the same person. Even their height was exactly the same.

Joly shook his head, wondering how miserable he must have been looking for her to ask such a question. “No, I'm fine. Am I not allowed to sit here or something?”

The bargirl smiles and makes a no with her head. “You just seem a little upset. A little very upset.” She laughed and Joly stared at her, wondering if that was how he looked like when he laughed.  
“I'm … I'm fine, though. I'm just waiting for a friend. I think.”

The girl nodded and without another word she filled a cup with liquor and put it on the counter. “For your friend if they come. Maybe that will make them come quicker?”

Joly smiled, stricken. He was just about to reply, explaining why he couldn't accept her offer, when another thought came to him. “You don't know by any chance a man named … L'Aigle?”

“L'Aigle? Like … The Eagle?” She hummed pensively. “No, never heard of that name. And it's quite a strange name, I'm sure I'd have remembered it. I'm sorry. Why? Is he the friend you're waiting for?”

Shrugging, he shook his head again. “Maybe he is, yeah.” And maybe he was someone who didn't actually exist. Someone who was a phantom of his fantasy, a figment of his imagination. Someone who, although so vivid in his memory, did in fact not work here. Or, worse, someone who just lied to him. “I just thought...” but before he could finish his sentence he felt a warm hand on his shoulder of someone leaning over him to talk to the bargirl, and was interrupted the person's uniquely soft voice.

“Cosette, beautiful, I burnt the muffins, can you go see if there's anything left to save?”

Joly's eyes – still on that bargirl – widened so much that it felt as if they were about to fall out. He stopped breathing, stopped thinking, just stopped, trying to not get overwhelmed by the feeling of that hand on his shoulder. It was warm, but electrifying, and it sent shivers down and up his entire body.

“Again?!” The girl asked, sighing out a little chuckle. “Fine, but only if you stay away from the bar.” She turned around only to look back a second later. “Oh, and there's a Schnaps on the house that you can have. The Monsieur here doesn't want it.”

Now Joly did notice the 'Monsieur' and his breath went from stopping to racing.

“Sure thing! Sorry for the muffins! Again...”

As soon as Joly felt how the hand on his shoulders was being removed, he spun around. His eyes dart up and although he knew all along, he still gasped when he saw L'Aigle's face.

L'Aigle on the other hand didn't even look at him at first. He just frowned pensively at the glass of liquor, pursing his lips. “I always wondered how Schnaps tastes like. Never had one, and I probably shouldn't drink during work anyways. It's not like I'm of much of a help in a sober state, but drunk..!” He shrugged, took the glass and lift it to his mouth, finally turning to look at the person he was talking to.

Joly just stared. It was simply so beautiful. He was finally able to look into the eyes he had dreamed of so many, many times, and which really did look as calm and beautiful and wise as he remembered them – and then he watched how the glass in L'Aigle's hands simply slipped through his fingers and crashed to the ground. Joly startled, clasping his hands in front of his mouth and followed how the shards spread all over the floor. But L'Aigle didn't pay any attention to that, it was his turn to just stare at Joly, his lips slightly gaped.

“I'm so sorry, was that my fault?!” Joly exclaimed, distressed and alarmed.

L'Aigle merely shook his head, though, reached out to take Joly's hands in his own and then pulled him closer. His eyes, showing so much astonishment about his presence, closed when he pressed a kiss to Joly's lips.

And Joly melted into this kiss, intertwining their fingers and bringing his free hand to L'Aigle's jaw. This made so little sense that all the thoughts that came up since he stepped into this bar disappeared into nothing but clouds of smoke, diffusing into the air along with their breaths.

Pulling back, Joly blinked: “This is quite pleasing, but I'm slightly confused.”, which caused L'Aigle to laugh heartily.

“I'm sorry. I just… It's just that... To be very honest, I just thought that I would never see you again and that hurt so ducking much! Call me weird but I fell so hard for you, right from the beginning I thought, damn, this boy looks so adorable, but then you were so cute and funny, and so very much not narrow-minded and dear deer, I knew I had a crush on you the minute we said goodbye. But then days and days pass and you didn't come back and as I realised how much I wanted you here to learn more about you, I noticed that it was more. That I am totally in love with you.”

Joly still blinked in surprise. He didn't expect that. Slowly he pulled L'Aigle down to him again and just kissed him. He felt a grin against his lips and couldn't help but smile, too.

“Is this unreasonable?” L'Aigle asks when he was let free.

“Maybe. Probably, yeah. It is absolutely illogical to be so deeply in love with someone you have only met once, and morally discussable whether our meeting does actually count as a meeting, and not just a … coital coincidence.” He tried, oh, how he tried to sound reasonable, but L'Aigle smirked and he couldn't, just couldn't hold back back a silly, silly grin either. For the longest moment they just dopely smiled at each other and time, just like in a dull romcom, seemed to go slower.

Everything was alright and the wild mix of colours in L'Aigle's eyes still radiated the warmest and coziest aura of trust, which Joly couldn't help but sink into, happily, voluntarily. For this short, yet endlessly long instant, he was perfectly, genuinely calm. But just as John August and before him probably Daniel Wallace wrote: 'They say when you meet the love of your life, time stops, and that's true. What they don't tell you is that when it starts again, it moves extra fast to catch up.” Because in the split of the second that followed this floating, pending, wafting moment of eye-contact, so much happened all at once.

The first thing was a scream coming from the kitchen, the second thing was a group of five or six young males pushing their way roughly through the bar to a table in the back, nearly knocking Joly over as they pass, and the third thing was the fire alarm going off for no visible reason.

“Are you okay?” Joly heard L'Aigle asking him, worried. “Don't worry, it's probably just the muffins, the alarm sets off far too easily.” But the crowd inside the bar was already standing, more people tried to get in, while others attempted to make their way out. “Maybe I should go see if Monsieur Fauchelevant is alright.”

Joly had no time to reply. He was dragged away by a panicked, drunk mass of people.

“Come back on Monday! It's always calmer on Mondays!” 

And so Joly did.

And it was calmer. So much calmer. L'Aigle made tea, wearing an adorable apron by the way, offered Joly a seat and introduced him to Cosette. “You can't believe how hard it is to explain people that you have met the prettiest boy in Paris while telling them that his name is Jolie.”

“Truly jolie, I have to admit.” was Cosette's response.

“That's still better than trying to find The Eagle.” Joly laughed.

“Yes, why the hell did you tell the poor boy that your name is L'Aigle, Bossuet?!” Cosette asked, punching him lightly.

“Bossuet?”

“I didn't do anything! He came up with it because of my hair.”

With the same smirk on their lips, the same intonation in their voice and in the exact same moment, Joly and Cosette asked: “What hair?!”.

L'Aigle threw his head back from bursting out into laughter. He explained them that it was an old joke with a friend of him, who was an awful history nerd and had once read of a poor soul who lived a few hundred years ago who wore nearly the same name as L'Aigle, coming from the same town as him, and who had been called by the nickname 'Bossuet'. It stuck because both Bossuets were knows for talking too much and “Shut up, Bossuet” was soon used more often than his actual name. This friend and him were friends for so long now, that literally everyone joined their circle of friends after the birth of this joke. And L'Aigle didn't mind. Although, and he added this last bit with a faint blush on his cheek while looking at Joly, he definitely preferred 'The Eagle'.

They laughed a lot that night. Eventually Cosette disappeared, claiming to be tired. As hours passed, the distance between the two others closed up, until they talked against the lips of each other, planting kisses instead of period dots at the end of their sentences.

And when the night ended, it was just another day starting. 

~~~

Ever since that night, they are meeting as often as they can, and whenever they do, they forget about the time. Joly can't help it. Being around L'Aigle feels light, feels right, feels like nothing could ever harm him again. And L'Aigle says that it feels exactly the same about him, too. Of course they understand each other ridiculously well, know exactly when something is said as a joke, or when it is meant to be serious. Of course they have a lot to tell each other, have the same kind of humour, the same taste in literature, have a lot in common. But in the end, that's not what causes the strange feeling of electricity when they're around each other. There's more. There's more behind L'Aigle's eyes that Joly can explain, and just looking at them feels like being enveloped in that reassurance that everything is going to be alright.

It's exactly about this phenomena that he is thinking about now. Grantaire wants to go to a bar, doesn't he? So why not bringing him to L'Aigle? Maybe L'Aigle has the same effect on him that he has on Joly? Who knows. Sure, maybe this is just a very selfish excuse for Joly to finally introduce Grantaire to his eagle, but maybe this could actually work?

“What if we go to my train station bar? The one where your eagle works.”

“You think we will make it this time?” They're still only on the phone, but Joly can hear the smirk in his voice.

“Just because we failed about a hundred times to have you meet him, it doesn't mean we should give up.” It was indeed like a curse. Whenever L'Aigle was free, Grantaire had something to do that day. But when Grantaire and Joly were waiting somewhere, L'Aigle would call and tell them that it was absolutely impossible for him to come at the moment. “But only if you promise me not to drink.”

“Alright.”

“Promise?”

“I swear to Bacchus!”

“Grantaire!”

But his friend just laughs and hangs up. A minute later it rings on Joly's door. He goes to open it and finds – oh, he's so not surprised – Grantaire, grinning widely. He looks so much better now than he did this winter. His hair is fluffy and surprisingly curly, the scarily dark circles around his eyes have disappeared, the simple white shirts he wears suit him incredibly well and even his skin looks so much healthier now. The sun made him tan rapidly, giving him a brown-golden tan before it was even really June.

Now it's July, they have one more month of summer holidays before school starts up again. One more month of days not to break the chain. A chain consisting of crosses on the calendar's day every time both of them stick to their plans. Grantaire's plan is not to drink, and to work out every day, or to go out at least once, for an hour, for a walk. And Joly's plan is to try something new each day. Trying to break the cage in which he has put himself many, many years ago. To put his clothes on before brushing his teeth. To open the window before drinking a cup of water. Or to open it at night, before going to bed. Little steps, for both of them, but steps big enough to deserve a cross on the calendar.

Both of them have broken the chain more than once. April, May, June, those weren't easy month. They fought, and it hurt a lot, but there were good days, too, like today. And even the days that started bad – like April 26, when Grantaire had appeared blind drunk on the steps of the library in which Joly was doing his summer tasks for his classes – sometimes ended nicely, in a cheerful night in a bar, on stranger's parties, cuddled up in front of a movie. Eventually they got better, both of them. Not good, but better. The mere facts that Grantaire only stayed in bed when there was some good old film on TV, and that Joly even dared to talk to friends of Grantaire, or friends of L'Aigle, socialised, was an achievement. And they celebrated every bit of it.

For Joly it was the first summer he didn't spend thinking about the next school term, didn't spend showering three times a day, didn't spend stressing out at night because it was too warm in the closed-up apartment, didn't spend hours at night reading through medical websites to find out about that strangely red-looking mosquito bite to see if it was maybe more, maybe even deadly. Of course he still took hours to prepare himself in the morning, still cleaned, air-dried, ironed his clothes every fourth of the month, still cut his hair on Sunday, cut his bonsai on Wednesday. Of course he was still Joly. But everything was more endurable now. The cage he was in wasn't broken, and he wasn't free, but it was more comfortable in it now. And sometimes, when he had a really, really good day, he even forgot to count the steps from his bed to the bathroom.

“You knew I was going to say yes, didn't you?” Joly asks dryly and lets Grantaire in. Latter just grins a little wider and causes him to laugh, too. He laughs far more than he used to now.

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”


	8. Backwards And Back

They decide to walk to the train station because it's a sunny but relatively windy, cool day, and the metro is probably overcrowded by tourists anyway.

At the bar, they find a little seat in the back of the front room, and Grantaire lets Joly sit on the couch so that he can overlook the bar.

And then they wait.

When the night falls and their stomachs demand food, they order fries with some chicken wings. Joly actually tries to convince Grantaire for some salad – “Caesar Salad if you want to!” – but Grantaire declines. He insists on the fries. And when they come, served with two, cooled beers, Joly knits his brows.

Grantaire merely grins back. “Oh, look at that! Beer!”

“Grantaire, no.”

“I don't know what you mean. I simply commented on the fact that-”

“No. You won't drink that beer. You promised me not to drink tonight.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, buddy. Look, there you go,” he shoved the two glasses over to Joly's side of the table, still grinning, “all yours. Ah, no, wait, right, you don't even like beer. Damn. What do we do?”

“R, Grantaire, please, I beg you, don't.” Joly tries not to disturb the people sitting next to them, thus nearly shout-whispers to his friend across the table.

“Don't worry, buddy, I'ma help you out with this. You don't have to take a single nip!” He lifts the pint to his lips and takes a sip, then sets it back down with a sigh, grinning at Joly's glare. “See, nothing happened. I'm still fine, and the world is not apocalypting around yet.”

“You're irresponsible.” Joly hisses and gets up. He needs to find L'Aigle as soon as possible so they can get out of here and have Grantaire feel better already. “I'm going to see if I can find him. Don't move from here.”

When Joly reaches the bar, he doesn't find Cosette, only the old man that is her father and owner of this brasserie. “Monsieur Fauchelevant?” Joly asks politely. The man, tall -- huge even – and so strangely buff and young-looking for the whiteness of his hair, smiles with his ever so peaceful smile.

“Monsieur Joly?”

“You can't tell me where Cosette and L'Aigle are today, can you? By any chance?” 

“I hope I do, actually. They're on a protest in this very moment, and hopefully only in the calm middle part of this protest like they promised me to, and not at the more radical front. Why?”

“I was just wondering.”

“They will be back soon, if everything goes alright. Do you want to wait in Monsieur Bossuet's room again?”

Joly shakes his head. “That is very nice, but I'm here with my friend. We will just wait and have dinner here.”

Monsieur Fauchelevant smiles and nods understandingly before excusing himself and turning to another guest.

Knowing that everything is going to be alright soon and that L'Aigle will be there in a few hours to to make Grantaire feel better, Joly feels a little less nervous on his way back to his seat. Sadly the calmness is immediately interrupt by the sight of untouched fries and chicken wings, two empty beer pints and a Grantaire grinning unashamedly up at him.

“Grantaire!” Joly exclaims and this time he doesn't care that their table-neighbours turn around, startling. “Why the duck did you do that?!” 

“I saved you from the evil beer.” Grantaire shrugs, a slight slur tainting his words. He has probably not eaten at all all today.

Joly looks at his friend and feels so pained for him. Just a few more hours before that protest would be over, and L'Aigle would find some time to come see them. Just a few more hours before Grantaire could see what a wonderful, radiating charisma L'Aigle has, and he would be smitten and alright again Just a few more hours. Damn. So many hours. Grantaire wasn't alright now! And he needed to be alright now!

“A double, please. No rocks.”

“Grantaire, no!” But it's too late, Monsieur Fauchelevant already heard the order and started preparing it behind the bar. 

“What?” Grantaire grins.

Joly sighs and clasps his hands over Grantaire's. “I love you, R but you musn't-..."

“I love you, too, buddy, what's up?”

“You mustn't drink now. I'm sorry I can't make you feel better, but...”

For a brief second Grantaire's grin falls but before Joly can even acknowledge it, it's back up, even wider, even more forced and undestroyable than before. “Jolly, you are terribly nice.” Grantaire slurs. “Let me thank you!” And suddenly he reaches over the table, grabs Joly's face with his heavy hands and pushes a wet, clumsy kiss to his mouth.

Joly struggles to fight him off, when he succeeds he just frowns and shakes his head. “What the hell, R?” he asks, by far not as shocked as he should be, not even as resentful. He can't really be anything but indifferent about it right now. Grantaire is drunk, this is his drunk-him acting unreasonably, and there is no reason for Joly to be mad. It's his fault. He can't help him.

“You're a good buddy, buddy. A good Jolly, Jolly.”

Joly sighs and nods, patting Grantaire's hand. If L'Aigle was there, or if Joly had managed to have them meet weeks ago, maybe he would be alright now. A moment later Monsieur Fauchelevant sets down the whisky on the table and smiles at Joly, who retrieves his hands from Grantaire's.

“A few more hours, yeah? Then we can go home.”

That's at least what he hopes. But time passes and L'Aigle is nowhere to be seen. The bar gets more and more crowded, and eventually Grantaire falls asleep, but no matter how strained Joly keeps his eyes fastened on the door, L'Aigle doesn't show up anymore. Panic arises. Not only is he worried for his friend having downed more alcohol than his body can possibly stand, but now there is also the sheer fear that something bad happened to Cosette and L'Aigle. He feels terrible. Worse than ever before. He feels helpless, too helpless to make everything alright. A part of his mind tries to keep his thoughts rational, tries to convince him that he's just overreacting and that L'Aigle is probably having a good time with friends, not guessing that Joly is waiting for him here. But the part of his brain that has always struggled to be sensible, hammers against his temples and tells him with a strong, stinging headache: He got hurt. Grantaire is hurt, L'Aigle got hurt, and now you will have to hurt, too. 

When it strikes two hours after midnight, Grantaire wakes up. He lifts his head and looks at his friend with sleepy eyes. “Has he still not shown up, Jolly?”

“He hasn't. We should go home now. I'll check on him tomorrow.” he says, getting up and putting on his raincoat.

Grantaire nods sleepily, probably not quite following Joly's trail of thoughts. “Are you still sure that he actually exists?”

“What do you mean?”

“Are you sure that you didn't just make him up in your mind? I mean, you never managed to have us meet. What if that's because he only exists in your head and only exists when I'm not around.”

They look at each other. It seems so logical to Grantaire, but the thought strikes Joly brutally, he freezes as if slapped in the face. What if? What if all of this is indeed nothing more than a dream? A phantom of his imagination? He had this thought before, and just when he needed L'Aigle, he had appeared. Normal people don't just appear when you need them, do they? And The Eagle, wasn't that a ridiculous name, too? Joly's heart starts racing. What if L'Aigle doesn't actually exist. What if he doesn't actually exists. What if he doesn't actually exists. What if … No. There is no way this can be. This mustn't be. And it makes absolutely no sense anyways. Or does it? His throat closes up as he tries desperately to recall what reason is.

And then Grantaire says something, that plants itself right into his chest like a seed and grows rapidly, poisoning his entire body and mind. “I mean, we both know that you're pretty hypochondriac. You always think you're sick of some sort, even if no one else can see the symptoms. Maybe this eagle of yours is nothing more than a symptom of your sickness?”

And now Joly is shaking. He closes his coat. “Don't be ridiculous, Grantaire.” he says, his voice driven by shudders. He feels the tip of his fingers, his cheeks, his legs numbing, everything disappears into some sort of far-away-darkness, plunging him into the well-known panic he knows all too well. It is rude, wrong and bigoted of Grantaire to even dare saying such a thing; but it has its uncalled effect. Joly's mind makes him believe it – and then there is nothing left.

The next thing he remembers is that he is back in class, back to studying, back to 7 am and counting the rings of his alarm clock rings. Waiting for the third ring and counting the steps to the bathroom. Still twenty. Nothing has changed.

~~~

It's not that he wants to ignore Grantaire. Nor that he wants to miss every single one of L'Aigle's phonecalls. It's just that every time he sees their name on the screen of his phone, he feels a sickness arising, so strong that he has to stop whatever he's doing. It's absolutely ridiculous, he tells himself. There is no way that L'Aigle doesn't actually exist. And yet. The first two weeks after that last night in the train station bar pass without any news from him. When Joly, one day, looks up what this weird rashing feeling in his throat could mean and finds an answer that tells him that he's going to die soon, he thinks about L'Aigle. Thinks about his eyes, his warmth and his smile. Maybe to distract himself. And exactly in this moment his phone buzzes. He doesn't pick up, of course, because suddenly the idea of L'Aigle being nothing more than a figment of his imagination makes more sense again. When Joly needs him, L'Aigle is there. No real person could have known that he needed to call exactly in this moment.

The fact that school forces him to break the chain-of-getting-better exercises once and for all doesn't make anything better either. It is easy to give up when there's no reason to keep fighting. At first this only applies to not answering his messages, to resisting the urge to fall back into his old rut of daily routines, later to simply not counting the days anymore, and eventually he even gives up studying. He passed the first year, yes, but why would he pass the second year? And what good was it to steal someone's seat if he would die soon anyways.

If only he could die.

With Summer coming to an end, the days become shorter and greyer, and it's even harder to tell whether a new day has started, or if it's still just the same dawn. For Joly it feels like a soon-falling night all the time.

It's exactly one year after he met Grantaire for the first time that he realises how much time has passed. Somewhen this Spring he set an alarm for this day, to celebrate it with Grantaire. He couldn't know that Grantaire's words would turn out to be such a massive trigger and push him back to where he was. Yet, the phone buzzes and reminds him for how long he has ignored his best friend. He remembers how bad Grantaire felt the last time they saw each other, and how helpless Joly was, too helpless to even try helping him. Yes, he still blames himself for that. He remembers how he just blacked out that night, without any memory of how he got home, leaving his friend alone although Grantaire needed help. A shoulder to lean on, a listening ear to talk to. Joly gave none of that, out of fear of not being enough, and he is ashamed of himself. It is part of the reason why he feels so ill every time he sees a new message from Grantaire appearing. “No,” he thinks, “don't try to be my friend. I'm no good, you deserve better.”

He loves Grantaire so endlessly much, for everything they have done with and for each other, that the hate against his own mind keeps him from contacting him again.

So, exactly one year after they first met, Joly cleans his apartment, brings all his keys together in envelopes with descriptions on it, writes a letter to his aunt and puts on his warmest, neatest clothes.

Different to last year, he knows where he's going this time. His feet lead him directly to the bar in which he met Grantaire, and this time he doesn't hesitate to go in. He walks straight to the bar and sits down. On his way he thinks, wouldn't it be funny if Grantaire was here to save him again? So when he orders some tequila, and someone taps his shoulder, he is barely surprised when it really is Grantaire who stands there behind him.

“Joly!”

“Maybe you're nothing more than a phantom of my illness, too.” Joly replies, quietly, indifferently and about to turn back to the barwoman. But Grantaire stops him and holds him by the shoulders. His eyes are wide opened and there's not even a hint of a grin on his lips.

“I thought you were dead.”

Joly tries to shrug him off but Grantaire's fingers are clutching his shoulders too tightly. “So you're not here to wait for me?”

“No.”

“Because I am.”

“I'm not.”

“And now you are here, isn't that funny? How I make people appear by only thinking about them? Just like with my sicknesses. How funny.” 

Grantaire frowns deeply, looking Joly directly in the eyes. “I'm sorry...” He finally lets go of him takes a barstool to sit next to him. “You really didn't make me appear. I really am real. I live here now.”

Joly, now free of the grip, has turned his head away defiantly. “In a bar. You live in a bar now?”

“Upstairs.” Grantaire lifts his finger and points to the ceiling. Joly follows the gesture with his eyes then looks down to the Tequila he is handed. Clutching it, he shrugs.

“You shouldn't.”

“I shouldn't. But I do. I lost my apartment after I lost my job. It's cheaper here, and closer to the Sorbonne. It makes me go to class even when I don't feel like I can.”

Joly lifts the Tequila to his lips but sets the glass down before taking a sip. He didn't know that Grantaire used to have a job. In fact, it's only now that he realises that he knows near to nothing about Grantaire's background. Sure, he once told him that his father left him when he was very little, and that he grew close to his mother. But who pays for his tuition? Where did he go over Christmas? So many questions which are left unanswered because Joly was too absorbed by being helped by his friend to notice that he needed help, too. Well, he did notice. But he gave up helping before even trying because he knew it would be of no good. What an awful friend he was, after all.

Joly digs his hand into his coat pocket and brings out his apartment keys. “For my flat.” he says. “If you don't let them shut down my bank account, there should be enough money to have you live there for three or four years.”

Grantaire stares at him. He doesn't take the keys and it seems that he doesn't even look at him. “Shit man, you're rich.” he says. Maybe it's an attempt to make a joke but neither of them has the energy to laugh at it.

“I'm dead.” Joly shrugs, puts the keys on the bar counter and finally down his Tequila. When he gets up, he feels Grantaire's fingers around his arm again.

“No you're not, buddy.”

They look at each other for a long moment, before Joly's lips curl up into an exhausted smile. “Yes. Yes, I am.” He frees his arm and grabs his bag, then leaves.


	9. Three Monologues And A Joke

His way will guide him to the Seine. It's raining today, and he knows a watergate that causes such a deadly maelstrom when it's raining, that no one, not even the best swimmers, have managed to come out of there alive. But he has barely walked a few meters, when Grantaire's voice stops him.

“Joly, no!” The way Grantaire emphasises the pause between the name and the order sounds exactly like Joly always did it when calling out Grantaire. It nearly makes him smile and wondering if he did maybe have an impact on Grantaire's life after all. “Joly, fuck, I'm sorry.” He catches up and goes to stand in front of Joly. His eyes are red. “I'm sorry, you have no idea how fucking sorry I am! I shouldn't have said that! I know that there's a difference between believing that the cold you have could be a deadly flu and believing that you're sick when you're really not. I know that you wouldn't just make up someone in your mind to cope with all the crap life is giving you. I know and I'm fucking sorry. I was pissed, okay? Fuck, maybe hurt. You were doing so fucking great because of your eagle and I felt so stupid for only pretending to be better. I mean, I was doing better, but I didn't understand why I wasn't doing as good as you, and I made myself believe that I only pretended to be good. I thought that since you had your eagle to brighten your day, I didn't have a reason to be better, it was like an excuse to not try too much. I thought that if I didn't manage to be really good one day, I could still blame you because you didn't get better alone either. I'm sorry, this is so stupid and so selfish, but I didn't want you to be alright while I was still shitty. You and your stupid eagle. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't think it would have such an impact on you, I didn't mean to make you feel so shitty. But please, please don't be dead. Let me help you be alright again, please, we can try again, right? It's not too late? We both felt like this before, we can both get better again, can't we? Please. I'm so sorry, Joly, I'm sorry I wanted you for myself, I'm sorry I wanted him out of your life so I could be the only one who could make you feel alright again, I'm sorry I was so selfish, I'm so fucking sorry, but please, please don't leave again.” With a gruff gesture, Grantaire pushes the apartment keys into his friend's hands and holds them against Joly's chest, suddenly motionless.

Grantaire doesn't cry, he never does and never has before, but Joly knows that this flood of apologies is the closest to something you can describe as tears. His eyes are red and filled with so much pain that it's nearly impossible for Joly to look at him.

“I'm sorry.” he whispers again but Joly shakes his head and takes the keys, slipping them into his coat pocket before carefully bringing his arms around Grantaire's shoulders. It's a clumsy, small hug, that feels by far not as protective has Joly wants it to be, but somehow it's still exactly what they need. Grantaire pulls the hands he has between their chests away and wraps them around Joly's waist, burying his face in his shoulders.

“I'm so sorry.” he mumbles again. “I didn't mean to fuck up. Please don't be dead.”

Joly pulls away, carrying a nearly visible smile on his lips again. “We should go to my apartment and have some breakfast.”

Grantaire's eyes meet his own and they seems so doubtingly hopeful. As if they can't and don't want to believe that this was all it took to convince Joly. His gaze trails down to Joly's lips and watches the quiet smile growing and fading and growing. Joly wants to hold it, to show him that it's alright, that's everything is alright. Well, and if not alright, at least better. So he holds his smile, only for Grantaire, who eventually mirrors it ever so cautiously. “Breakfast? Isn't it, like, noon?”

Joly looks to the grey sky that is so depressingly raining down on them. “Linner, then.”

“Linner?”

“Like Brunch. Lunch and Dinner.”

Grantaire's lips twitch into a wider grin. “Sounds delicious.”

“I'm sorry, too, you know.” Joly says when they're turning to go. He still feels empty.

“For what?”

“For believing that L'Aigle presence was helping more than yours. I mean, it was you who made me feel good enough to go see L'Aigle in the first place. I don't get how I could forget about that.”

Grantaire shrugs. “People always put love over friendship.”

“I always hated it when people do that, but I kind of get why they do it now.”

“Yeah?”

“It's more ... intense. Like a drug. You want more of it and start thinking only about that, forgetting that the friendship kind of love made you feel just as good in the long run.”

Grantaire nods. “Probably.” After a pause he adds: “I'm glad we're not in love with each other.”

A little laugh escapes Joly. “That would be so wrong.”

“So very wrong.” They grin at each other until Joly headbutts Grantaire's shoulder, happily. He still feels empty, yes, but it's as if Grantaire's voice envelopes his heart with the same warmth his jacket once enveloped Joly's body. It feels a little safer now.

The world around them is grey. The pavement and the earth between the stones, wetted by the falling rain, is muddy and grey, the people around them wear black boots and black coats, carry black or dark blue umbrellas, and even the usually bright yellow and rose shining houses in the St Michel quarter appear grey-ish-white. Everything is dull and colourless, as if the dark blanket of rain clouds has laid itself over everything in the city and plunged the air into some sort of watery twilight. That's maybe the difference between the love of lovers and the love of friends. The love of friends doesn't always taint the whole world in pink, in neon green or fire red, it doesn't sparkle or add glitter to your life, it's nothing like a star twinkling in the night. Everything stays just the way it is around you. But what this love does, is that it makes you be alright with all that grey. It makes you feel safe to stand under the starless sky. It makes you keep walking, and it helps you tolerate the rain. It's not like the sunniest day, but it makes you appreciate the rain a little more. Maybe that's why it's so eternally vital.

Just as Joly thinks about that, he appears a rainbow coloured, brightly shining umbrella coming around the corner.

“That's the gayest umbrella I've ever seen.” Grantaire smirks, who has spotted it, too. But Joly is by far too distracted by the person holding the umbrella rainbow to reply.

“L'Aigle.” he gasps, stopping in his tracks. Grantaire blinks and looks from the umbrella to the person underneath it, to Joly staring.

L'Aigle, who has by now recognised Joly, too, halts for a second before running the last part of the way. “Joly!” he exclaimes, throwing his arms around Joly's neck and nearly knocking him over with his enthusiasm. When he pulls back, he holds Joly's face in his hands. “Joly, Joly, Joly, my beautiful Joly, I've been looking for you everywhere! I thought you were dead! I asked Cosette but she didn't see you either, and when I asked her father he said that you knew we've been at the protest against Sarkozy's new law, so I thought maybe you joined us and got hurt or something. But then you didn't reply to any of my messages and I thought, duck, what if he's mad at me or something because I couldn't write you while I was at the hospital! Oh dear deer, I'm so glad you're okay! You look a little pale, and even thinner than usually, have you not been eating right? Be honest with me, are you okay? Oh dear deer, I'm so glad you're okay!” And with that he hugs him again, and Joly can't help but to laugh. The radiating colours of the umbrella seem to spread out inside his chest. When he's finally let free, Joly turns to Grantaire, who has stepped aside and pulled his jacket over his head.

“Grantaire, look … look that's my eagle.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Thought so.” he says. The way he has tilted his head down and now looks at L'Aigle through his eyelashes makes it look like a hateful glare.

“Oh!” L'Aigle smiles apologetically, turning to Grantaire. “So you're his boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?!” Grantaire and Joly ask with one voice.

“Nah, man. Not at all.”

Joly covers his mouth to muffle a small giggle. If he didn't feel a little better at the moment, he would really think that his mind is still playing tricks on him. The coincidence of L'Aigle asking about the topic that they've been talking about just a few minutes ago is too big. This really does look like scenery made up in his own head.

Unfortunately, Grantaire doesn't join the giggle and demands with a unmelodic voice: “I think you've got some explaining to do, Jolly.”

“Oh, Jolly! That's a cute nickname!” L'Aigle smiles widely at Grantaire, who merely raises an eyebrow.

Joly turns to L'Aigle. “You were at the hospital?”

“Nothing serious. Just some bruises from the protest.”

“And I thought you had forgotten about me!”

L'Aigle laughs. “I could never.”

Joly takes a step closer to his eagle without noticing, and L'Aigle too seems drawn toward Joly. Their faces come slowly closer as their gazes stay locked, but before their lips can touch, Grantaire clears his throat.

“Joly. Explanation.”

Joly jumps back and laughs, shrugging apologetically at Grantaire before looking up at L'Aigle – who is blushing faintly – and asking: “Why do you think that we're a couple?”

“I always kind of thought that you weren't telling me the full truth, but when I came back to work and Monsieur Fauchelevant told me that you had been waiting here for me with your boyfriend, I kind of knew who he was talking about.”

“But why would he say that?” Joly asks, blinking in confusion.

“Because we held hands and I kissed you.” Grantaire grunts.

“We did?!”

“Sure we did. I mean. I did.”

Joly's mouthes a silent “Oh” and he looks helplessly up to L'Aigle. Latter just laughs and shakes his head.

“That's fine. I mean, of course I was a little hurt. Well. A little. A little a lot, acutally. But I thought, hey, if he doesn't want to tell me, there must be a reason, right? And I rather want to see you happy than not see you again. Which then happened, sadly. But again, I thought that maybe I knew about him but not the other way round? Which is why you never made it to have us meet up? And then I figured that he must have found out which made you stop talking to me. Which is why I then stopped talking to you. I didn't want to smother you, or make you feel like you had to explain yourself. Or something like that. Ah, you know how it is when you're heart broken, you think weird thoughts all day and can't even really decide who to blame. Anyways, what is the truth then? If you're not actually a couple.”

Joly turns his head to Grantaire, who, when no one says anything, sighs: “We fought and had a rough time. We're not a thing, but he is fucking crazy about you, he just ignored you because I made him believe that you don't exist. But you do exist so please take him back before he jumps into the Seine.”

“Grantaire!” Joly exclaims, not sure what part of this shocks him the most.

“No, that's fine, buddy.” Grantaire replies, who apparently knows what part should shock him the most. “As he said, I'd rather see you happy thanks to someone else than not see you at all.”

“But R...”

L'Aigle, who's following the conversation with woken eyes and a little shy smirk on his lips, asks: “Are you sure you're not a couple? Because you're sure acting like one.”

Joly keeps his eyes on Grantaire. “No, we're not. But he's my best friend who thinks that I want to replace him just because I talk so much about you. He doesn't get that I talk just as much about him when he's not around and that he means a ducking lot to me. I would very much appreciate if we could stop this silly nonsense now, go to my place and drink some tea while we stop acting like we're in a bad American Hollywood comedy about a love triangle. Seriously, as if we couldn't all be friends together. You can't always make the sun shine, so it would be nice if Grantaire could realise that I need him to get through the rain. Damnit.”

Grantaire blinks in surprise. There's a moment of silence before his eyes dart over to L'Aigle. “Do you have any idea what he's talking about?”

L'Aigle laughs and shrugs. With a light motion he brings the rainbow coloured umbrella over all three of their heads. “I think we should just take up the offer for some tea.”

Grantaire nods. “Agreed.” He links his arm with Joly's and suddenly grins again when L'aigle does the same thing on Joly's other side.

As they are walking again and Grantaire starts telling L'Aigle about why he kissed Joly and how it was really just an act of drunkenness, Joly still tries to figure out what the hell just happened. Was that really all it required to solve this childish problem? Was that really all it needed to set an end to all that darkness that had engulfed him during the last few months? Three monologues and a joke? He looks up at Grantaire and watches him talking with a wide grins, and then looks up at L'Aigle and hears him laughing. Was that really all it took to make everything alright?

“You must feel unlucky to share your umbrella, huh?” Grantaire asks when they stop in front of Joly's house.

“Au contraire.” L'Aigle smiles warmly. “I think, I couldn't be any luckier.”


	10. Recommencement

Maybe they all are. Lucky.

Sometimes it's like that in a friendship. A single person more can change the dynamics so radically that everything either becomes a whole lot better, or a whole lot worse. In Joly, L'Aigle and Grantaire's case it gradually changes to become absolutely great.

Both, L'Aigle and Grantaire stay over at Joly's place for more nights than they sleep somewhere else, and so, when Joly receives his Christmas money a few months later, he goes off to find a new apartment for the three of them. Joly doesn't go to see his family that holiday, and although he is the only one of the three who is Christian enough to be used to celebrating Christmas, they still spend the night of the twenty-fourth in their new home, singing German holiday songs out of tune and brutally too loud, and fight L'Aigle's cat – a black one, much to Joly and Grantaire's amusement – for her to stay away from the chicken they cooked collaboratively. The dinner is served on a blanket on the floor, and Grantaire's TV is turned on in front of them, with Joly's bed and desk the only three pieces of furniture they have for now. And yet, it feels like home. Home. For the first time it's not just an apartment but home.

The place is small, each of the three rooms are barely big enough for more than a bed and a wardrobe to fit, and standing in the kitchen means ducking your head thanks to the pitch of the roof. And yet, as soon as Grantaire brings his couch and L'Aigle buys them a few carpets, the two bedrooms are nearly always empty. Grantaire, who can only really fall asleep with a buzzing TV in the background, usually sleeps in the living room, which causes Joly to join him in the middle of the night when he can't sleep either, which – as some kind of side effect – always has them wake up together in a knot of limbs and tangled blankets with L'Aigle on top of them.

Although Grantaire always acts a little colder and responds a little more sarcastic to L'Aigle than he has ever been and done to Joly, although he even chooses not to call him L'Aigle but Bossuet, he never considers him anything else than a friend. Even when L'Aigle and Joly finally make it official that they are indeed a couple, he never introduces L'Aigle as “My best friend's boyfriend” but always as “One of my best friends”. Sometimes, because no matter how light-hearted and cheerful Joly becomes in the curse of the next few months, Joly is still Joly and still worries a lot about everything, he wonders if Grantaire is really happy with living together with a couple. But usually when those thoughts arise, Joly will come home from a long night of studying at the library, and find L'Aigle teaching Grantaire how to cook, find them playing The Floor Is Lava, or even find them huddled up together under a blanket watching a movie.

Grantaire is drinking again, yes, but he is never really getting drunk alone anymore. L'Aigle, who although is the clumsiest bartender ever, turns out to be a surprisingly good mixologist with an incredible talent to know what taste could fit another. While Grantaire is forced to patiently wait between each cocktail and gradually drinks less and less, Joly eventually starts to actually appreciate the taste of alcohol. It doesn't burn bitterly on his tongue anymore, instead it is sweet and colourful. Quite like his life has become. And, to the surprise of literally everyone, the barely five feet small Joly is very much capable of drinking as much as his two six feet something friends, without getting sick, hungover, or even black-out-drunk. In fact, even when he drinks more than the others, he will still be the one who makes sure they stay hydrated and tucks them to bed.

For Joly nothing feels like change although everything is very different soon. Change always meant to leave behind what was sure, safe and well known. But what happens in the course of those few months comes so naturally that's was exactly this; sure, safe, and well known. Nothing ever feels strange, nothing ever seems threatening. The fact that they are doing laundry day together now, the way Joly can't count every little detail and step of his anymore because there are other people standing in the way or putting those things away, opening windows before he can open them, changing his surrounding every day, all that doesn't bother him. He even appreciates it. Even when he opens the washing machine one day and out come his clothes in completely different colours because L'Aigle mixed them with his own colourful clothes. Although this accident forces Joly to look different for the first time in more than three yes, even then he can only laugh and shrug. Well, forces. Actually, Joly likes it. He soon even starts to steal from both of his friends' wardrobes and flaunting colours and patterns that you indeed need to be brave to wear them. Everything happens because it was the right thing for Joly's life to happen.

In mid March, a few days after Joly's twenty-first, it's L'Aigle's twenty-fifth birthday, and he invites both of them to the party that his other friends are throwing for him. Joly is reluctant at first because it's finals season and his will to pass into his third year is greater than ever before. But both, Grantaire – who has not studied at all (“Why studying if I don't aspire to pass?”) – and L'Aigle convince him that he needs to take breaks if he wants to function right, and so they go.

It's raining again as they make their way to the Sorbonne. Joly loves the rain by now. It gives him a reason to flaunt the giant, rainbow coloured umbrella.

Near the Place St Michel, not far away from the Panthéon, they make they way up in a little Café which Joly, although walking past this square for three years now, has never noticed before, and which required to walk down a long, narrow corridor before finally reaching the café room. While L'Aigle knocks and waits for someone to open the door behind which loud chatter is to hear, Joly turns to Grantaire with raised eyebrows.

“Do you know this place? I swear, I've never seen it before.”

Grantaire grins. “You have to admit that you're not going out a lot.”

Joly laughs. “That's fair.”

“Is called the Musain. Thought it was closed for years now. Better do your prayers, Jolly, time has come, Bossuet is finally going to show us his serial-killer secret.”

“Who there?” A voice from inside suddenly makes them shut up.

“On est tellement abaissés, s'il-te-plaît, soit notre ami.” L'Aigle says and a second later the door swings open. Behind it stands a man, tall, huge, giant even, with long hair and a wild beard covering most of his face. Yet, and Joly can't hold back a gasp of surprise, he is wearing a tight, short and glittery pink dress and high heels.

“Bossuet!” the man exclaims and pulls the birthday boy inside. “Almost everyone is here already, we're only waiting for Jehan to finally bring their cake, they promised us two, remember? And brought none. Only a bouquet of flower. Nice thought, but flowers taste like shit and I'm hella hungry. And where to put all the candles? So they'll come back in a few minutes. Come in, shit you're absolutely drenched, and, oh.” He stops himself as his eyes fall on Grantaire and Joly. “Who's that? Oh, no, don't tell me.” He throws his heavy paws on Joly's shoulders whose lungs let out a little wheeze. “You are Joly, aren't you? Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!” He brings his hands back to his cheeks and jumps up and down excitedly – Joly quietly wonders if the old wooden house can stand that. “Bossuet! You are right! He is absolutely adorable! And his eyes, just like you said, they give up the raddest vibes, oh – my – God.”

L'Aigle laughs again and motions towards Grantaire. “And that's Grantaire. I warn you right now, don't try to fight him, he doesn't look like it, but he will finish you – verbally and physically.”

Joly blinks and looks at Grantaire. “When did you two fight?” But Grantaire just shrugs and stuffs his hands into his jeans pockets.

“Oh, that sounds promising!” the man laughs and brings his arm around Grantaire, pulling him with him to the bar. “And very intriguing. Hi, honey, call me Bahorel. You okay? D'you want anything to drink?”

Joly follows them with his eyes, and he must be looking as amazed as he feels like, because when L'Aigle sees his expression, he says: “She's absolutely wonderful, isn't she? But don't sing or quote any movies or musicals when she's around, or she'll perform the entire thing for you.”

She! Joly's eyes widen and he turns to L'Aigle but before he can apologise for his thoughts, or even ask any further questions, L'Aigle's attention is drawn to something else. Someone else.

“Happy birthday to you,” a tall but by far less bulky man – Joly hopes that he is gendering them right this time – covers L'Aigle's eyes and sings the entire birthday song in a variation that resembles Marilyn Monroe's performance for Kennedy so much that it's almost scary. When he's finished, he asks: “Who am I?”

L'Aigle laughs. “Give me a hint, oh mysterious friend who is not at all the only one who would do this when drunk.”

“I'm not drunk!” the man replies.

“I can smell the Absinthe, 'Ferre.”

“Oh, shut up, Bossuet!” he laughs and lets go of L'Aigle, allowing him to turn around. They kiss each other hello before this Ferre pushes his glasses up his nose and hands him a little present. “It's just another set of Dix It cards for the next boring meeting.”

“You're the worst secret keeper in the world. Why do you even wrap the present up if you tell me what it is?” L'Aigle laughs and then smiles at Joly. “Remember the history nerd I told you about? My old Kindergarden friend who is the cause that everyone calls me Bossuet? That's him. Combeferre.”

Joly smiles and nods, holding out his hand. “Hello, nice to meet you. I'm Joly.”

“We're family, no?” he smiles. “So put your hand back where it belongs and give me a hug.” And with that he leans down and kisses him hello, too. He smells wonderful, Joly notices, smiling up at Combeferre's dark, kind eyes. Maybe it's the glasses, but it seems like there is a veil of wisdom layering over the glistening brown that makes him feel like Combeferre has endlessly many stories to tell. The frame of the glasses themselves is purple and Joly finds that weirdly reassuring. He should tell him that he likes the glasses, or his red sweater, just to make sure that he knows that his shyness doesn't mean that he's grumpy. But as Joly opens his mouth, words tumble out he absolutely did not intend to say out loud:

“You smell wonderful.” he breathes. Immediately, he feels two pairs of eyes resting on him and covers his mouth. “That's not what I wanted to say.”

Combeferre turns to look at L'Aigle. “Do I smell wonderful, Bossuet?”

“Like spices, cinammon and philosophy.” L'Aigle smirks, his eyes still on Joly. “I am glad that you finally know. I've been meaning to tell you for years now.”

“It was about time, then!” Combeferre laughs and L'Aigle joins him.

“That was awkward...” Joly mumbles, slowly letting his hand sink.

But Combeferre shakes his head. “If I've learned something in twenty years of friendship with Bossuet here, it's that everything is only as awkward as you make it. No situation can't be saved with a little joke.”

His eyes on Combeferre's soft features, Joly thinks about his words, spoken in an even softer voice. “Well...” he eventually says, “I can't think of a good joke right now, but when I do, I will let you know?” He beams.

L'Aigle laughs and Combeferre smiles, tilting his head to the side. “I see what you mean, now, Bossuet.”

“He has a gorgeous smile, hasn't he?”

“You really weren't exaggerating. It's just like you said...”

Joly blinks in confusion, looking back and forth between the two men until L'Aigle chuckles and pulls him in to give him a kiss, cradling his neck. “Your smile has the ability to... It's impossible to look at it without feeling happy.”

When Combeferre notices that Joly doesn't know what to say, he puts a hand on L'Aigle's shoulder. “Let us go say hello to the others. Joly, do you want to join us or go to your friend and make sure Bahorel doesn't devour him?” 

“I … yeah.” Joly nods. “I'll go see Grantaire. Thank … thank you.” 

“I see you later then.” L'Aigle smiles and Joly nods.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Hurrying across the room, Joly goes to squeeze himself on the chair next to Grantaire.

“I hate her. I hate her!” Grantaire grunts as soon as he notices Joly's presence, pointing at Bahorel with his beer.

“It's okay, honey, everyone has to lose sometimes.”

“I hate her, Joly, she's mean.”

Joly blinks and looks confused.

“No, don't worry, sweetheart, he's fine.” Bahorel smiles and boops Joly's nose, who feels his cheeks heating up a little. “You're so adorable, oh my. But you do look a little like Cosette, Bossuet was right. I mean, I've only seen her once or twice – she doesn't come here a lot because her father doesn't want her to get trouble with the police. He's very protective you know – but from what I can remember you have quite the same smile.”

“I've seen the smile first.” Grantaire grunts and drops his forehead against Joly's shoulder. After what Combeferre and L'Aigle just told him, he can't help himself but think of all the times he has earned this particular intrigued glance from Grantaire whenever Joly laughed or smiled. He wonders if everyone he knows feels the same way about it.

Joly pats his head. “What is this exactly? This 'here'? Why would it get anyone in trouble to be here?”

“You don't know? We're the group that organises all the students' protests of Paris. If you ever hear of a big demonstration or rally against whatever law that asshole of a president tries to make us swallow, that's probably ours.”

Joly's eyes widen. He knew that L'Aigle and his friends participated a lot in those protests, but he must have completely missed that they were the leaders of the movements. 

“Does that mean you're the one's to blame whenever the buses don't drive?” Grantaire frowns.

Bahorel just laughs again. “Yes, basically that is us. You really didn't know? Silly Bossuet. He can talk for hours and still forget to mention the core of the information.”

“Maybe he didn't want us to know.” Grantaire shrugs and sips his beer. Joly looks at him, and for a brief moment he worries that this is true. When Grantaire catches his glance though, he quickly shakes his head. “Bullshit. He probably just thought we're not interested enough to tell us. I mean, it's not like he goes to those protests a lot. It's maybe not even that much of a big deal to him. He surely just forgot to tell us.”

Bahorel, observing how Grantaire's voice changed from rough and grumpy to caring and soft in the split of a second smiles a little. She boops Joly's nose again. “He's right. Bossuet is a very forgetful person and he never reads the emails we send him. If he did, he would maybe not always miss the meetings.”

Joly, reassured, nods a little and smiles gratefully.

“Maybe you could change that, though?” A voice behind them says. They all turn around to face a woman with short, fire red hair and freckles all over her face. Her smile is cheeky and her hazelnut brown eyes glisten with wit. “We can always need more people to help us out.”

“Actually, I would love to.” Joly nods.

“Perfect.” she smiles. “Both of you?”

“Never.” Grantaire huffs. “I surely don't want to join you. Revolution, what bullshit. As if your little protests actually change anything.”

“Grantaire!” Joly yelps, covering Grantaire's mouth and looking apologetically at the two women.

But they both just laugh and Bahorel says: “Don't worry, he's just mad because he lost an argument with me earlier on.” She sips her beer and then points at them with it. “Joly, Grantaire, that's Feuilly, probably the only man here who isn't a lazy ass student.”

Man. Joly's eyes widen briefly and a smile appears on his lips. He gazes at Feuilly and Bahorel. He's living in Paris for so many years now, and this is the first time that he feels like he really belongs somewhere, like he's not too much, or just a waste of space. Like he's needed. And all that because there is a woman looking like a man and a man looking like a woman, and he is exactly like them.

“Aren't you a lazy ass student, too, Bahorel? Or do you consider yourself hard-working all of a sudden?” Feuilly grins and Joly stares at him with his mouth slightly gaped. It is maybe absolutely ridiculous but he feels like bursting into tears of joys.

“Yeshua forbid! Me! A hard-working student! Never!” Bahorel shouts and a second later she breaks out into singing Status Quo from High School Musical and Joly and Grantaire exchange an alarmed look.

Just as Bahorel finishes her musical number, someone knocks on the door. 

“That must be our cake!” Feuilly smiles and goes to the door, where another man, smaller, with a dark tan and wild, curly black hair, asks:

“Who's there?”

“On est tellement abaissés, s'il-te-plaît, soit notre ami.” says a soft voice from the other side.

“You really have a password?” Grantaire smirks and Bahorel, climbing down from the barcounter answers:

“We thought that if we start a revolutionary mission, we should go all the way.” They laugh and bring their attention back to the door.

When it opens, a boy, well probably a man, enters, who looks so fine and delicate that the way Courfeyrac goes to tackle him into a hug looks like it could break him. Although everyone is still talking around them, the room seems more quiet all of a sudden. It feels as if this man, with his blond curls, with his long eyelashes, feminine neck, red lips and rosy cheeks, as if this man who looks so chaste and so perfectly … perfect is illuminating the room. As if a holy blanket is enveloping the light of the lamps around them. Joly's eyes are fastened on him and although he tries to make himself believe that this person is very much real, he can't help but feel like there is a porcelain doll greeting the people around him. When he takes his red coat off and jokingly throws it over Feuilly's head, a laugh chimes out of his throat so clear and so beautiful that Joly believes he hears an angel laughing.

Turning around to Grantaire to ask if he saw the man too, Joly is stopped by the expression on his friend's face. His eyes are wide opened, his eyebrows arched up, and his lips parted into a disbelief. His entire upper body seems to be leaning forwards, unintentionally, as if drawn towards that apparition. He is completely motionless, not even his chest wells up, making it look like he completely forgot to breathe. He really does look like he's just seen an angel.

“R?” Joly asks carefully but Grantaire doesn't even seem to hear him. He must be lost in his thoughts. Just when Joly starts to worry, Grantaire suddenly stirs and stares down at his beer.

“And you must be our newest member, Bossuet's boyfriend.” a voice behind Joly says that is so soft and yet so clear that it breaks through the noises all around them with ease. It appears as if the sound of this voice, although warm and quiet floats over everyone's heads and reaches just the right person. Reaches them, and goes straight into their heart. Joly is sure, even if you didn't know the language in which this voice speaks, you would still understand the content of the words.

He turns around and meets the bluest eyes he has ever seen. They're dark but as clear as the water in mountain lakes, and seem to hide a secret so endlessly deep and heavy that although Joly is being given a friendly smile, he feels like he's being embraced by unspeakable melancholy.

“Joly. The name. I mean, my name. Not yours. I mean, you probably knew that your name isn't my name. Un-unless your name is Joly, too, in that case, hah! What a coincidence. But it probably isn't so- … Hi.” he stutters, hastily putting the umbrella away to take the hand he's being reached. When he retrieves the hand, his clumsy, overwhelmed gestures knock the umbrella over and when he hurriedly tries to pick it up again, he stomps his elbow into Bahorel's chin. “Oh, oh my god, I'm sorry!” he gasps but Bahorel just laughs again, and so he swings back to face the new arrival.

The man waits patiently for Joly to straighten his clothes, smiling softly. He seems to be used to such a reaction, and it makes Joly wonder if there is maybe a reason for the melancholic shimmer in his eyes.

“Enjolras, the name. Well, mine, not yours, as you already elaborated.” he chuckles and Joly almost chokes on his breath.

He remembers what Combeferre told him. That no situation is awkward, if you don't let it be awkward. He wonders if Combeferre told Enjolras the same thing, or if Enjolras learned it himself while being friends with L'Aigle. It seems strange that his safe, worldly L'Aigle is friends with this angel here, and even stranger that Enjolras might have taken lessons from him. It makes Joly almost proud to know L'Aigle. Oh, his beautiful L'Aigle, carrying his own very wisdom on his lips when he smiles.

“Is it true what Feuilly tells me?” Enjolras continues. “You want to give us a hand?”

“I … I don't know yet.” Joly smiles. The nervousness is nearly gone. If Enjolras knows and likes L'Aigle enough to be working with him, then there is nothing to be afraid of. Enjolras must be a good person.

“Well, if you find out, let me know, yes?”

“You better, because our Enjolras is our little leader and at least he should know who is part of the group and who isn't.” Bahorel explains in her loud voice.

“That's not true.” Enjolras shakes his head. “I'm in no way the leader of this group. I believe that a group such as ours should never have a leader, or everything stands and falls with him. Could there be anything more dangerous? A revolution succeeding and falling because of one man's fate?”

Joly shrugs and shakes his head, incapable to find words that are beautiful enough to follow Enjolras'.

“Well, but if we did have a leader, you'd be it.” Bahorel grins and Enjolras lets out another soft chuckle, shaking his head.

“In any way,” he turns to Grantaire, “what about your friend?”

“Nah, he doesn't want to.” Bahorel says before Grantaire even has the time to lift his head, realising that he's being talked to.

“Why not?” But again, before Grantaire can answer, Joly cuts him off.

“He doesn't believe in revolutions.”

“How unfortunate.” Enjolras says calmly, his eyes resting on Grantaire, who glances back defiantly. “To think that only revolutions have brought us where we are today.”

And finally, Grantaire finds his voice. And what a rough voice. “Revolutions do shit. Revolutions just bring you from one extreme to the other. They just reverse the whole system, but it's by letting things slowly evolve that we got to where we are today. All those young people always talking of revolting a little, they've all just read too many history books.”

Enjolras looks visibly taken by surprise. He is obviously not used to people talking to him like that, and for a moment, the way he tilts his head and the way the light ceases to reach his face, his eyes seem to turn darker, scarier, and even deeper. But a second later he cocks his head back, laughing quietly, and his golden curls jump up lightly. “I see where you're coming from. Too bad you don't want to join, or else we would have more time to talk about this.”

Grantaire shrugs. “Never said I don't want to join, did I?”

“But your friend did.”

“I always preferred talking for myself.”

“And I always preferred believing the source than those who quote it.”

“You sure sound like it. What do you study?”

“Politics and History of France. And you?”

For a moment they just look at each other and the air feels palpable, causing Joly to hold his breath out of fear to inhale some of the vibes. He knows the answer. He knows that Grantaire is studying the exact same major, and the probability of them never going to meet in a class is incredibly small. And yet, Grantaire answers with: “Art.”

Joly blinks and his eyes dart to Enjolras. “Art is beautiful and I am very glad that it exists on our planet, but I could surely never be an artist myself. I barely even draw any inspiration for life from it. I assume I am simply too mundane and simple for things that require beauty instead of logic.”

“Don't worry, the revolution doesn't need to be beautiful anyways.”

Enjolras smirks, and so does Grantaire.

A moment later a loud vibrating noise starts playing a birthday melody breaks the tense mood, and all four of them, Enjolras, Joly, Bahorel and Grantaire turn around. Combeferre stands there, blowing into a didgeridoo to which another boy with black curls and a dark golden tan starts shout-singing Happy Birthday. Everyone goes to join the song and regroups themselves around the two cakes.

As they watch L'Aigle blowing out the candles – after he gave Joly a small peck on his lips – Joly turns to Grantaire and asks quietly: “Why didn't you tell him that you study politics too?”

“Guess I didn't want him to expect too much of me.”

“Expect? Why not?”

They applaud and L'Aigle starts cutting the first cake and handing out the pieces.

Grantaire shrugs. “I don't know. I didn't feel like I was … worthy.”

“Worth any expectation?”

Grantaire nods and glances across the table with the cake, his eyes only briefly resting on Enjolras. “He's beautiful, don't you think?”

“He's probably the definition of beauty, yes.”

Grantaire snorts. “But Joly, didn't you hear? He's too mundane for things that require beauty!”

Joly laughs and bumps Grantaire's shoulder with his own. “Then he's the definition of logic.”

“Yeah, right.” he snorts and takes a plate of cake. Combeferre has finally stopped playing the didgeridoo and it's much quieter now. So Grantaire lowers his voice when he continues. “I think he's worth studying for my finals.”

“To pass?”

“To pass and stay in the Sorbonne, yeah.”

Joly smirks. “Incredible. You meet one handsome guy and you instantly go back to having aspirations.”

Although it is meant as a joke, and Grantaire knows it, he stays silent for a moment. When he speaks again, the voice he uses is his serious voice, the one that shows that he's honest right now. “It's more than that, I think. Remember when I said that I finally want to look at the sun again without falling apart? I think … You know, it feels like … I think I can now. It's just … another kind of sun.” Both of their eyes rest on Enjolras' smile. “This is bullshit. But I don't think I ever felt like this before.”

Joly, remembering a conversation a few months back which sounded quite like this one, can't help but giggle a little. “Well, buddy, I'm not trying to scare you right now, but you sound like you're very obviously into that guy.”

Grantaire, smirking and remembering very well where this quote is coming from, takes a moment to try the cake. Chewing, he offers Joly a bite. When both of them have watched the chattering people around them for a while, he sighs. “I really thought I wasn't capable.”

“People change, and you're a person, too. You're not excluded from that change.” Joly smiles up at him. He can't count the amount of times he has gazed at this profile, but he is sure that he never seen it with such a soft expression on it. He likes it. It looks peaceful.

“I love you, Jolly.”

“Love you, too, R.”

Grantaire closes his eyes for a moment then turns his head to smile back at Joly. “Want some beer?”

“Duck you.” They laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not trying to depict a certain mental illness, nor am I trying to say that those are the very only symptoms of whatever illness you choose to see in this story.   
> I didn't put myself in a psychoanalyst's shoes and googled particular illness' name only to then write about the symptoms. This is not the case. I merely wrote from personal experience and had Joly and Grantaire act in a way I wanted them to be, not under the picture of a chosen illness.  
> If the way they act also happens to be symptoms of an illness you know the name of, congratulations, but I'm not in the position to mention this name, and thus generalise or simplify an entire issue that I barely know of.


End file.
